Forgive and Forget
by waiting4morning
Summary: Severus Snape awakes in a Muggle hospital with no memory of how he got there or who he is. Hunting desperately to regain his shrouded past, Snape discovers that he himself is being hunted… Author's note added
1. Prologue

**Forgive and Forget**  
by Moira Brennan

  
**Prologue**   
  
His first thought when he awoke was that if he didn't move soon, he was going to be violently sick all over the garish orange blanket that covered him. He tried to sit up, only to discover that his throbbing head didn't like that at all. Suddenly, his vision blurred and darkened… When he opened his eyes, a woman in a white uniform was stripping the orange blanket off him while another approached the head of the bed with a glass of water and a bucket.   
  
"Here, love. Wash your mouth out. There you go. Drink a little… not too much now! There."   
  
Simply raising his head a few inches to gargle the sweet, fresh water made his now empty stomach turn again and he collapsed back onto the pillow with a grimace. The nurse watched her patient a moment and then bustled off to make sure the soiled blanket was replaced after she checked his vital signs.   
  
His stomach had stopped its wild flopping for the moment and settled for an indignant gurgle as he lay there, refusing to black out again. To keep his mind on other things he observed the room around him and was unsettled to realize that he didn't recognise some of the things in it. _Where am I?_ Quickly he scanned the walls and his heart gave a relived lurch as he mentally named things he recognised: _clock, picture, bed, blanket, floor, curtain, lavatory_…. But what was the beeping monstrosity beside his head? And there was something wrong with the people in the picture hanging on the wall… He turned his head and frowned at the clock on the bedside cabinet. He knew what it was but he knew that he wasn't used to seeing bold red numbers on a black background. He stared hard at the empty spot in front of the clock, disconcerted for some reason. Something was tugging at his memory… something important should be on the bedside cabinet… he never slept without it close by… His head started to throb again so he abandoned the elusive memory and eventually nodded off to sleep.   
  


* * *

  
When he next awoke, his head didn't hurt quite so much as before but his mouth tasted abominable. He also noticed, as he became more fully awake, that his left forearm was in heavy white plaster up to the elbow and he had general aches and pains all over his body. And he had to use the loo. Badly. Experimentally, he raised himself up on his good elbow and was pleased to note that his vision did not blacken at the edges like before. Cautiously, he sat the rest of the way up, gritting his teeth against bruised muscles that cried out in protest. After ten minutes of painful, slow movement, he managed to set his bare feet on the cool tiled floor.   
  
After breathing deeply for a few moments' rest, he grasped the edge of the bedside cabinet and stood on legs shaking from exertion. The open door of his goal swam a bit in his vision and he clenched his jaw tightly, willing himself not to black out. It was another ten minutes before he dared to shuffle forward, using the wall as support. Twenty more minutes had allowed him to reach his goal and he was in the painful process of hobbling back to the bed when he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye.   
  
It was a mirror. Reflexively he looked at himself…   
  
The alarmed nurse discovered her patient next to the toilet, his shoulders heaving with the effort of his stomach to reject its contents. But he had already emptied his stomach earlier; all he had left were dry lurches that soured his mouth. When the nurse asked him what he was doing there, he simply shuddered and leaned back over the bowl. 


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**   
  
Harry sat silently in the back seat, staring out the window as the train station faded too quickly from view. Gradually, his focus moved from the sights outside to his own ghostly reflection in the car window. He sighed softly, already missing the easy camaraderie he shared with Ron and Hermione. Fifth year at Hogwarts had come and gone, too quickly for most of it but in some parts not quickly enough... He shook his head slightly, causing some of his messy black hair to fall into his eyes. Brushing it away impatiently, he listened carefully for any sign of discomfort from Hedwig whom Vernon had insisted upon stuffing into the car boot, cage and all. Harry had tried to reason that there would be more room if she were allowed to fly but Vernon would have none of that. After all, what might the neighbours think if they saw a white owl flying after their car?   
  
Luckily, Uncle Vernon had grudgingly allowed Harry to keep his school bag inside the car with him, keeping a suspicious eye on it as if it might do something "unnatural." Uncle Vernon need not have worried, however, as he only had a few sheets of parchment, two quills, and an inkbottle inside of it. His wand was safely in a compartment inside his trunk behind his Hogwarts robes. And even though he might have been sorely tempted to use it on his only living relatives, the threat of being expelled from Hogwarts was enough to quiet any vengeful thoughts. Harry made a mental note to go to Diagon Alley in the summer before term started to get fitted for new robes. His old ones were starting to feel tight around the shoulders and they were no longer Hogwarts regulatory length on his quickly growing frame. In fact, he had gotten a lot taller than he had anticipated; making his already thin frame become almost skeletal. His face had lost it's boyish roundness over the year and he had looked at himself with surprise in the lavatory mirror the last day of classes to see that his face had gotten slightly longer, gaining a slimness of features that Ron had jokingly referred to as "Snape-ish." It hadn't helped that he had neglected to cut his hair during the year and it was now longer than it ever had been. Harry grimaced inwardly at the memory. He had not been amused at all by Ron's teasing....   
  
Dudley, by the slightly curious and jealous eye he cast upon his cousin, had noticed Harry's change in height as well. Harry didn't much mind getting taller or any of the other changes associated with becoming an adult, but he wasn't particularly looking forward to speaking at any length because his voice had, over the school year, acquired the embarrassing habit of cracking every so often. He could just imagine what his relatives would make out of that; he could almost see the vicious glee in their faces. Unconsciously his hand grasped his school bag tighter; inside it was the beginning of a letter he planned to send to Dumbledore once he had the chance. It might be his salvation this summer and he had every intention of sending it away with Hedwig, whether there were bars or no bars on his windows.   
  
* * *   
  
He had been staring at the picture hanging on the wall of his hospital room for nearly an hour. It still bothered him that he couldn't tell what was wrong with the picture of a father tossing a giggling child high into the air but now he stared without seeing it. He was thinking furiously, desperately trying to recall anything before those first few moments of consciousness when he had awakened in the hospital . . . but there was nothing.   
  
When he had looked in the mirror the other day, the shock had sent him to his knees and over the toilet. Terror had wrapped icy fingers around his heart when he realized that he did not recognise the face staring back at him. The obsidian black eyes and hooked beak of a nose set in a pale, narrow face framed by greasy black hair were as unfamiliar to him as the nurse had been that first moment. He did not know his name, his past, or even his age. Everything he had been was gone. He had no idea where in the world he was for that matter. The nurse had told him kindly that he was in St. Christopher's Hospital, London, when he asked. But if he had ever heard of this place before, he no longer remembered it now.   
  
The memory of his first look into the mirror and the subsequent revelation still sent waves of revulsion rippling down his spine but he forced his stomach to behave. He had finally been able to keep down solid food this morning and had no intention of giving it up, no matter how unpleasing it was to the palate.   
  
"Good afternoon, Christopher!" Staff Nurse Dawson cheerfully addressed him as she walked in, a carrier bag in her arms. He had been unable to hide the fact that he no longer had a past or a name from Staff Nurse Dawson, the nurse who was in charge of him. Although he found it humiliating to admit, he had been forced to say a stiff, "I don't know" in reply to her query about his name. Concerned, she'd had the doctor run a few tests on more machines he didn't recognise, but in the end, the doctor confessed to the patient that he did not know why such a severe case of amnesia should result from a mere concussion.   
  
The doctor had advised him to relax as much as possible because stress would certainly not help the process of regaining his memory. When asked what hopefully temporary name he would like, he had hesitated, unsure until Staff Nurse Dawson suggested "Christopher," as it was easy to remember. After a moment's thought, he had shrugged and pronounced it "suitable" for the time being. Now she set the bag on the bed and pulled out some clothes, laying them neatly on the blanket. Christopher looked at her with narrowed black eyes that she thought were vaguely disturbing. They reminded her too much of a strict teacher she'd had back when she was a girl at school....   
  
"Nothing?" she asked hopefully, referring to his memory.   
  
He snorted derisively. "Nothing," he replied shortly.   
  
She sighed and continued to unpack her bag. With Christopher's stay at the hospital nearing an end, she had hoped that they might be able to identify him correctly so he could go home. But the police had records of no missing person matching his description. Even after they'd suggested a fingerprinting, it had come up with nothing, which ruled out having a criminal record. _So he's not a criminal_, she thought, eyeing the scowling, sallow face of her patient; _or at least he's never been caught_. With difficulty, she shoved aside the mental image of the disturbing tattoo he had on his inner left forearm. A friend of hers who worked in the Accident and Emergency ward had helped the doctor set the arm and encase it in plaster. She had later told Staff Nurse Dawson about the angry dark lines of a skull with a snake emerging like a tongue from its evilly grinning mouth. . . .   
  
He had nowhere to go, at least not until the couple that had found him lying unconscious in the street had stepped forward and inquired about his well-being. Staff Nurse Dawson had taken a leap of faith by informing the social worker on Christopher's case about the middle-aged couple. The social worker, a Ms. Prism, interviewed them and after she had told them that there was no way to determine when "Christopher" would get his memory back, the couple offered the "poor man" a room in their suburban flat if he hadn't regained his memory by the time he was released. Naturally, Ms. Prism viewed other accommodation possibilities but eventually Mr. and Mrs. Childe were granted care of Christopher.   
  
Ms. Prism had also supplied a change of clothes for him from the spare clothing ward in the hospital after examining what he had been found in and declaring it "appalling." Christopher had been found in nothing but filthy black robes that reminded Staff Nurse Dawson somehow of academic raiment. Like the robes, the plain black trousers and old-fashioned dress shirt underneath were torn in a few places and stained with blood.   
  
Coming out of her reverie, Staff Nurse Dawson pulled out the last item in the bag; a long, narrow stick, polished to a dark gleam except for a few scratches and nicks along its smooth surface. She thought it looked like one of those batons that conductors of orchestras used, but never having been close enough to see one properly, she wasn't sure.   
  
"Is that... mine?" he asked hesitantly, picking up the stick but appearing not to recognise it.   
  
Staff Nurse Dawson shrugged. "I suppose so. The couple who found you said that it was with you."   
  
Christopher opened his mouth to ask what it was but judging by the curious gleam in her eye, she didn't know either. How strange that he felt like he should know it but he was unable to place the thing in his memory. Somehow the stick's slight weight was comforting, it's contour familiar in his hand even though he had no idea what it was for.   
  
"Anything else?" he asked, his long fingers still caressing the dark wood in hopes of releasing a memory.   
  
"This," she replied pointing at the black item on the bed which, despite its neatly folded appearance, had a slight reek to it. Dried blood, wet dirt, and a faint spicy odour he couldn't identify.   
  
Abruptly and without warning, Christopher remembered something. He was younger and was looking at a large black cauldron in front of him, the contents of which were bubbling. He felt a brief surge of satisfaction and there the memory ended. He strained and replayed the memory in his mind but he could remember no more.   
  
"Is that it?" he asked, feeling Staff Nurse Dawson's curious gaze on him. She nodded affirmatively.   
  
Great; a filthy rag and a stick to find his past with. Just great.   
  
* * *   
  
Later that day, he was offered shampoo and soap and asked if he felt up to taking a shower. He eagerly accepted, feeling that perhaps a wash would help him return to some sense of normalcy. It was awkward but eventually Christopher managed to thoroughly wash the grime from his black hair while holding his broken arm safely out of the shower's aim. He also examined the rest of his body superficially, noting some tender bruises he hadn't seen before along his ribcage. Rinsing the last of the soapsuds from his body, he sighed in satisfaction, feeling the filth of the last few days wash into the drain.   
  
Drying off in front of the mirror he glared at the disturbingly unfamiliar reflection. _If only I could remember...._


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**   
  
Wide-eyed in bed, Harry waited another twenty minutes, listening carefully, before daring to creep out from under the covers. Luckily for him, the moon was bright that night and gave just enough light to allow him to see what he was doing without having to turn on the bedside light. First, he retrieved the letter to Dumbledore he had finished earlier that day and scanned over it quickly.   
  
_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_ (it read)   
  
_Forgive me if any part of this letter sounds rude, I'm in a bit of a rush. I know that the Dursley house has some kind of magical protection over it so I will be safe over the summer, but I would like to know if there is any possible way that I might stay at Hogwarts until the term starts? Just for this summer? Muggles call it a "summer job." I could run errands for you and Professor McGonagall, help Hagrid get the grounds cleaned and kept, water and feed Professor Sprout's plants… I could even help Professor Snape make potions for the coming war. Please, Professor?  
  
Sincerely,  
Harry Potter_   
  
He'd deliberately included the line about helping Snape to let Dumbledore know how serious he was. The Headmaster knew very well that Snape was not one of Harry's favourite people. Although he'd thought about it, he didn't include in the letter the fact that Sirius might be able to visit him at Hogwarts. That alone was enough for Harry to risk Vernon's wrath by sneaking out at night. He tiptoed to Hedwig's cage and spoke softly to wake her. She hooted in annoyance at being woken up and he shushed her quickly, explaining that she had to be quiet or risk waking everyone up. Being a magical animal, Hedwig understood and after he opened the cage she settled on his arm swiftly and silently.   
  
As noiselessly as possible, Harry opened the bedroom door, his heart pounding lest a creak of the hinges should betray him. But this was Dudley's room too, and the hinges had been kept well oiled. He crept down the corridor in his stocking feet, keeping an ear out for any change in the rhythm of Vernon's snoring. Luck was with him, however, and he made it all the way through the house and out into the front yard without trouble. Quickly, he tied the letter to Hedwig's leg.   
  
"This goes to Professor Dumbledore only. Make sure to eat something you like before coming back. It looks like I'll only be able to give you leftovers again." Hedwig nipped his finger affectionately and soared off into the night, her snowy plumage fading quickly against the velvety black sky.   
  
"What are you doing out here?" growled a voice close to his ear as a meaty hand clamped down upon his shoulder. Harry spun around. It was Uncle Vernon, in his striped pyjamas, thinning hair dancing wildly in the cool night breeze and the fireplace poker gripped tightly in his hand.   
  
* * *   
  
"There's no need to be scared," smiled Ms. Prism as she and Christopher descended to the lobby in the lift. Although he stood perfectly still, his dark eyes darted uncomfortably around the small space while his elegant fingers tugged on the navy blue button-down shirt she had picked out for him as if the feel of it was unfamiliar.   
  
"I am not scared," he replied waspishly, shifting the bag that held the dirty black robes and the mysterious baton-like stick. "I am merely apprehensive," which was true. This would be his first time out of the hospital. Not only was he uncertain of exactly what to expect in the future, he was also still recovering from the concussion and had a little packet of pain medication in the larger bag to prove it. He also felt dirty. A shower had done much in the way of personal comfort but he had been unable to shave in the few days he was at the hospital. They had offered him a disposable razor of course, but he had not remembered how to use it and had refused to ask how. It was little comfort to him that he had remembered that he didn't like having a beard. The pitiful dark growth sprouting on his chin, he felt shabby and disheveled. It made him look older than… well, older than he thought he was. The couple that had graciously opened up their home to him were waiting for him in the lobby and he hated to meet them feeling so unkempt.   
  
The doors to the lift opened and he followed Ms. Prism out as she stepped confidently down the hallway and into the lobby towards a woman in her late fifties. "Mrs. Childe," she greeted her and touched Christopher's elbow to propel him forward. "This is Christopher." Awkwardly, he managed to shake the woman's hand while holding his bag against his chest with his broken arm.   
  
"Hello, dear," she smiled. Slightly rounded more than average, Maggie Childe stood nose to chest with Christopher, her mostly grey hair pulled back into a bun. Her blue eyes were friendly and showed no hesitation when she extended her hand.   
  
"A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Childe," he said clearly and firmly, determined not to let his slovenly appearance make her have doubts. Absently, he wondered where her husband was. Ms. Prism had said a "couple" didn't she?   
  
As if reading his mind, Mrs. Childe gestured towards the exit with a slim hand unmarked by age except for a few soft wrinkles. "Michael is waiting in the car just outside. We knew that you're still feeling poorly so we didn't want to make you walk farther than necessary." Her voice was clear and friendly, falling into Christopher's ears like a breath of fresh air and after a moment, he felt his tense muscles relax just a touch.   
  
* * *   
  
Christopher painfully extracted himself from the car, his still healing body jarred from the ride far more than he liked to admit. He eyed the respectable looking building with a flicker of apprehension but this time curiosity overrode his fears. He wondered if his own home was similar to this building and so was interested to see if the inside might spark any memories.   
  
Michael Childe came around the other side of the car and offered to hold Christopher's bag for him. Christopher declined, rather coolly. Michael backed off, but was not offended as they had been warned that their temporary guest might be irritable, a possible symptom of the concussion he was recovering from. Michael Childe was taller than his wife and easily met their rather gloomy charge eye-to-eye. His reddish-brown hair was only beginning to get noticeably grey at the temples but Maggie called him "distinguished" looking so he wasn't complaining too much.   
  
Christopher suddenly halted on their way inside. Maggie and Michael eyed him questioningly. "I will be unable to pay you until…" he trailed off uncomfortably, his forehead creasing in self-disgust.   
  
Michael waved aside his concerns. "We wouldn't think of asking you to pay, Christopher. Not when you don't have anywhere else to go." He paused for a moment, seeing the younger man's disquiet. "But if you feel that you must contribute in some way, I'm sure we can find something for you to do around the house." Christopher appeared to consider this and then nodded his satisfaction, relief smoothing out some of the lines on his pale face.   
  
Christopher had another dilemma when they approached the staircase leading up to the fourth floor flat. Michael was apologizing for the slowness of the maintenance team who should have finished with the broken lift two days ago but Christopher stopped at the foot of the stairwell and stared at the steps in deep concentration. Something was wrong with the steps…. Maggie and Michael looked at each other.   
  
"Something wrong, Christopher?" asked Maggie in a friendly voice.   
  
His head snapped up and he stared at her with intense black eyes. "Moving!" he announced triumphantly, "The stairs should be moving!" Maggie blinked in surprise, hesitated and looked to her husband.   
  
Michael scratched his head and brightened. "Escalators!" he smiled, "You remember escalators from somewhere! That's good! You're making progress."   
  
Christopher frowned, the triumphant gleam fading from his gaze. "Escalators?" he asked carefully, "Explain."   
  
Michael's smile faded and he took a deep breath, remembering that the Staff Nurse had warned that Christopher's form of amnesia seemed unusual so there was no telling what he did and did not remember. "Escalators," he repeated, "Moving stairs. Usually metal with rubber handrails." Christopher did not reply but Michael took that as a sign of understanding and continued walking up the stairs.   
  
Christopher stared sourly at the unmoving, dull brown stairs. After a moment, he followed slowly, saying nothing but knowing that the stairs in his brief flash of memory had not been metal. 


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**   
  
"Nothing!" Harry blurted out quickly as the grip on his shoulder tightened. Uncle Vernon frowned at him suspiciously. "I was just giving Hedwig some exercise," Harry said thinking quickly. "She was in the cage all the way here… I thought now might be best because no one can see her at night." He stopped, watching Vernon's face closely for any sign of disbelief.   
  
Vernon scowled at him. Owls were unnatural animals to have as pets but the boy did have a point… "As soon as your… pet comes back, put it in the cage and make sure it stays in there or I'll have it plucked and stuffed!" He turned back to the house, grumbling to himself as Harry's anger dissipated in relief. He didn't know what he might have done if Vernon had stayed to wait for Hedwig to come back.   
  
Harry stayed out about ten more minutes to make sure Uncle Vernon was back in bed and silently crept back towards the house that was not his home.   
  


* * * 

  
Christopher halted on the landing between the second and third floors, breathing heavily and trying not to sway on his feet as nausea turned his already pallid skin an unhealthy shade of grey. Up ahead, Maggie heard him stop and turned to see him grasping the banister in a white-knuckled grip. She quickly descended and gently extracted the carrier bag slipping from his grasp. He did not object this time.   
  
Finally, though dots of perspiration shone on his forehead, Christopher managed the last two flights with a single-minded intensity that surprised the older couple watching him. Michael unlocked the door and Maggie motioned him towards a well-padded chair. Christopher declined to take it, remaining on his feet. Despite the gurgling of his stomach, he surveyed what would be his temporary residence.   
  
Large windows on the far opposite wall shed the afternoon's waning light on a baby grand piano, gleaming black and well polished, as was a cello resting in its stand beside it. A silver music stand stood to the side, white sheaves of notation-lined paper sitting silently and waiting to be read. The floor dropped down a small step to the main part of the room taken up mostly by a sofa, old but comfortable and the big padded chair that Maggie had originally offered to Christopher. The floor was wooden but had multi-coloured carpets strewn here and there to dispel the coldness of the floor to bare feet. On the walls hung a few paintings and more oddly disturbing pictures of, assumingly, family and friends. Dark wooden bookshelves filled with books lined the rest of the free space on the wall.   
  
The room opened up into what looked like a modest dining area and kitchen on one side and on the other, a narrow hallway presumably leading towards the bedrooms. Michael turned to face Christopher as he completed his visual circuit of the room. "Would you like to wash and shave before tea?"   
  
"Yes," Christopher replied, turning from his inspection of the bookshelves. Michael nodded and led the way. "Towels are here in the airing-cupboard, shampoo is there, soap is right here… and…" Michael rummaged around in a cabinet eventually emerging with a razor, much like the one he had been offered at the hospital. "Here's a razor you can use and my shaving foam is right here." Christopher frowned at the two items he had no memory of using but nodded and thanked his host.   
  
He had already showered that morning at the hospital but this time he decided to attempt shaving, memory or no memory.   
  
Christopher looked askance at what Michael had called a "razor" and "shaving foam," hesitantly picking up the can. He glanced at the door but pride prevented his asking Michael for help. A gruelling twenty minutes later, Christopher managed to get the black stubble off after reading the directions and looking at the pictures on the can of shaving foam, but not without a few stinging cuts.   
  
He scowled at his face in the mirror, still disturbed by the unfamiliar image. His face was lined and seemed to have a perpetual sour expression, even when he wasn't feeling particularly irritated. His eyes were black and haunted with secret knowledge that he couldn't even guess. Reaching up with his free hand, he touched the corner of his mouth, wondering what past heartaches and failures had embedded themselves in his skin...   
  
His hand. Christopher looked at the long-fingered appendage, noting a few calluses and some old abrasions as if from acid on the otherwise pale, smooth skin. Pale skin… Christopher examined the skin on his legs and upper arms, finding it all the same pale colour. He obviously didn't get out much or he worked in a place that didn't have windows.   
  
A small, flowering plant sitting on the sink was giving off an odd smell. He glanced at it and like someone lighting a candle in a dark room, it's name came to him from the black void in his mind: _Feverfew,_ Tanacetum parthenium. _Also known as Midsummer Daisy, Featherfew, Featherfoil or Flirtwort. Not native to Britain… Useful for hysterical complaints, nervousness, depression, and for lowering fever. A decoction with honey is good for coughing and difficult breathing…_ Christopher blinked in surprise. Where had that information come from? He looked at the burn-like abrasions on his hands again… Perhaps he was a chemist or some kind of pharmacist or even a botanist . . . that would explain the extensive knowledge of a single herb and the scars.   
  
He clenched his fist and slowly lifted his eyes to the mirror, meeting the face there without flinching. "I will remember!" he vowed in a hiss.   
  


* * *

  
"Michael," asked Maggie slowly, looking up from the washing machine in the kitchen where Michael was preparing the meal. "Do you know what I should do with his… whatever it is?" She held up the dark, narrow stick that had been grasped in Christopher's hand when they found him in a dark grimy alley in London, unconscious and injured. Her first instinct was to simply throw the apparently useless thing away but as it had been in the bag with his belongings, namely the voluminous black robes now in the washing machine, she didn't think their guest would appreciate that much. Michael shrugged and suggested that she just put it in the guest room where Christopher would be sleeping. Maggie acquiesced and had just got back when Christopher emerged from the hallway, his clean-shaven chin emphasizing the narrowness of his face.   
  
The three of them ate contentedly at the small table in the kitchen. Maggie tried occasionally to open up dialogue with their guest but he seemed lost in thought and barely responded except with short monosyllabic answers. After a while she gave up.   
  
The meal continued in silence until Christopher suddenly spoke up after Maggie served him a bit of bread and butter pudding. "The feverfew in the lavatory is young so the small potting container it is in now will be adequate but the plant often grows to three feet. I suggest finding a larger area, perhaps a garden where it will thrive better." The comment was quiet and so matter-of-fact that Michael paused in the middle of pouring more tea for himself. He recovered just in time not to overflow the cup and looked quickly at his wife. Maggie had a comical mixture of surprise and confusion written on her face.   
  
"Really?" she managed, trying to act normally. "I didn't even know what it was called. It was a gift from a neighbour. How did you know that?" she asked casually.   
  
Christopher attacked his bread and butter pudding with a vengeance. "I don't know," he growled in self-loathing, hating the weakness that prevented him from knowing the basics of his own life. Technically, he knew that it wasn't his fault that his memory was gone, but if he had been attacked in the street, as Staff Nurse Dawson had told him, shouldn't he have been able to defend himself adequately enough not to fall and hit his head hard enough to blank out at the very least twenty-five years of his life? 


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**   
  
_He was in a room with five beds that were all alike. Swathed in luxurious forest green drapes edged in silver, elegant wooden posts stretched languorously up towards the grey stone ceiling. He was sitting on his bed, holding his left arm tightly at the elbow, and biting his lower lip to keep tears from falling. He hadn't known it would hurt this much..._   
  
Christopher blinked groggily and as the fog from his brain cleared realized that the pain from the dream was still there although it was more of a general ache rather than the sharp stabbing pain from the dream. Gingerly, he sat up, relieving the pressure on his broken arm. He must have accidentally rolled over onto it during the night. The dream kept running through his mind and he was surprised at how vivid the image of the dungeon room - _dungeon?_ - was. How he knew it was a dungeon he couldn't imagine, but he remembered the coolness in winter and the thick, warm blankets that always covered his bed, the one in the corner furthest from the large fireplace.   
  
What was that place? He had lived there for a few years if the ease and familiarity of the room in the dream was any indication. He scowled in the dark of the guest room, replaying the dream over and over in his mind until sleep once more claimed his eyes.   
  


* * *

  
Harry restrained himself from whooping for sheer joy as the wind several dozen feet above the ground blew his hair wildly. Covered by his father's Invisibility Cloak, his school trunk shrunken to a manageable size in his cloak pocket, Harry stuck his hand briefly out from under the cloak to wave at Hedwig floating placidly behind his Firebolt. When the reply from Dumbledore had come a few days after he had sent his plea, Harry had expected a simple thank you for offering his time and a warm wish that he might enjoy the summer. Polite, but firm in the fact that he had to stay with the Dursleys. But to his surprise, the letter had not only thanked Harry for his offer but also encouraged him to come! In it, Dumbledore thanked Harry for being willing to help and informed him that he had taken the initiative of talking to the Ministry of Magic, which grudgingly gave permission for him to use magic to shrink his trunk so it was easier to transport.   
  
Vernon and Petunia had taken some convincing but after weighing the possibility of having Harry gone and not having to pay old Mrs. Figg to watch him while they went on a weekend to see Aunt Marge, they reluctantly conceded. Dumbledore had told him that all he needed to do was go to Platform 9 ¾ at Kings Cross Station as if on the way to catch the Hogwarts Express. Since no train would be there, he could simply follow the train tracks from the air on his broom. If all else failed, he could also simply tell Hedwig to lead him to Hogwarts. However, part of the trip he had to leave her far behind because the trip would take awhile, about 12 hours if he pushed his broom as fast as was comfortable for a long ride. Harry wanted to be there before nightfall if at all possible but Hedwig simply couldn't fly as fast as his Firebolt.   
  
He had been ready to send a brief note to Ron and Hermione but an excited Pigwidgeon had arrived before he had a chance with a note from them both. Ron had invited Hermione to go to Romania with the Weasely family to visit Ron's older brother Charlie. "But don't think anything about _that_," Ron had scribbled. "I only asked her 'cause she came moping to Ginny about having nothing to do over the summer and how she couldn't buy next years text books cause we hadn't got the list yet. Blimey, she's a nutter sometimes." Harry wondered briefly why Ginny hadn't invited Hermione herself but shrugged it off.   
  
Tucking a flapping corner of his cloak into his waistband, Harry let a wide grin stretch his mouth as he followed the train track towards Hogwarts. His real home.   
  


* * *

  
Nearly fourteen hours later, a stiff and exhausted Harry landed his Firebolt outside the large doors that led to the main entrance hall of Hogwarts. It was about midnight since Harry had not anticipated problems such as hunger or bugs splatting against his glasses during the trip. He had stopped a few hours into his trip to eat some sandwiches he had packed and then had to stop soon after to clean the bug guts from his glasses. Then, as it had gotten late, he had almost fallen asleep on his broom, the branches of some trees scratching at his feet the only thing that woke him up. Worried that he might do it again with worse consequences he had stopped near a little creek splashing his face with water and running around to loosen up his stiff legs, hoping to make himself more alert. He'd had to repeat the process twice more before he finally saw the huge Hogwarts castle looming on the horizon, giving him new energy to push his Firebolt the last few miles.   
  
Wearily he pointed his wand at the huge doors. "_Alohomora,_" he said, but he was so tired that instead of bursting right open, the old doors simply groaned and slowly opened as if being pulled by a diminutive house elf. He stepped inside, willing his legs not to collapse. It seemed a very long time as he walked through the deserted hallways until reaching the stone gargoyle that led to Dumbledore's office. He was wearily considering what strange password the Headmaster might have chosen when the gargoyle leapt aside and Albus Dumbledore emerged.   
  
"Harry!" he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling merrily. "You're a bit later than I expected but no matter. How was the trip?"   
  
Harry opened his mouth to answer but only a head-splitting yawn escaped his lips.   
  
Dumbledore chuckled. "I see you've experienced the joys of hours long broom travel." He laid a steadying hand on Harry's shoulder and walked with him down the corridor. After only a few turns, the Headmaster stopped at an ordinary looking door and opened it. "You'll be staying here for the duration of the summer. Gryffindor Tower is far too lonely for just you. I'll see you in the morning Harry. Good night!" The large grandfather clock standing against the wall suddenly chimed the hour and the aged wizard chuckled. "Perhaps I should say, good morning!" Harry mumbled something incoherent in reply and Dumbledore left. Harry didn't bother to look at his room as he laid his broom under the bed and set his miniature school trunk on the bedside cabinet, too weary to make it larger at that moment.   
  
His legs aching, Harry climbed into bed without bothering to put on pyjamas. His cloak would do... 


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**   
  
On a lazy Saturday afternoon, Christopher was thumbing through one of the many books that lined the dark bookshelves in the main room. Michael was at a small desk in the corner, pen scratching away steadily while Maggie sat on a chair, her crocheting in a small pile on her lap. A sudden hurried knock sounded at the door and Maggie quickly rose to answer it. A young woman, brown hair tied messily away from her stress-lined face, entered with a blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. She glanced at Christopher, blinked in confusion when she didn't recognise him, and pulled Maggie out into the corridor for a hurried, hushed discussion. Moments later, Maggie returned with the bundle now in her arms.   
  
"Who was it Maggie?" asked Michael absently from the desk, pen still scratching away.   
  
"It was young Laura from across the hall," she answered, crossing to the settee. "She had to run out for a moment and wanted to see if we might watch the baby while she's gone."   
  
Christopher looked over where Maggie lifted the blanket from a small and serenely sleeping face.   
  
"Michael, dear, could you go find the old bassinet so I can watch her while I crochet?"   
  
Michael wrote a few more lines and got up to disappear briefly down the hallway. He soon emerged with the bassinet and placed it beside Maggie's chair. Tenderly, Maggie moved the sleeping infant into the basket and after a maternal smile, sat back down. The room was silent once again until Maggie rose to check on dinner.   
  
Christopher moved to sit down in the chair when a murmur from the bassinet drew his attention. He hesitated, saw that Michael was engrossed in his writing, and went closer. He was curious despite himself. The child was small, even for a newborn, but seemed to lack no energy as the toothless pink mouth opened in a yawn while tiny arms flailed about. Christopher felt a smile curve the corner of his mouth as he watched the baby settle back down into whatever dreams one so young might dream.   
  
By some unknown instinct, he reached in, touching the soft little palm with the tip of his finger. The baby's chubby fingers closed around it with more strength than he suspected and without warning the sleepy lids fluttered and opened.   
  
A hard knot formed inside his stomach as the baby's blue eyes inspected the narrow face now hovering above her resting place. It was with a nearly physical shock that he realized that he might have a child somewhere just like this one. He might have a son or a daughter who, even now, might be waiting for their father to come home. His hand jerked with the surprise that followed the thought: _I might be married!_ The thought that he might possibly have a loving family looking for him, wondering why he wasn't coming home. "Great Merlin's beard…" he whispered softly, hardly aware of what he said.   
  
The baby yawned again and the tiny grip on his finger loosed as the child slipped back into sleep. Christopher looked down at the book still in his other hand with disgust and shelved it, stalking to his room with renewed purpose. Seething inwardly, he cursed the complacency he had been enjoying the past week as he searched for the black robes he had been found in. No longer would he sit and wait for his past to find him. He would take an active part in discovering it for himself or possibly never regain his memory at all, and that was something he refused to allow.   
  
More colourful cursing followed Christopher's attempts to get the robes on with one good arm but eventually he triumphed. Although he did not remember anything immediately by putting on the clothes that had once been familiar like he had hoped, he felt himself truly relax in the comfortable swirling black fabric. This was what he was used to; this was part of what he had once been. But… he glanced out of the window where he saw people milling around, enjoying the fine summer day. No one else was dressed in robes… clearly he would have to resort to Muggle clothing if he were to go outside at all. _Muggle?_ The word had appeared, like most of his precious few memories, out of nowhere and with no accompanying explanation. He turned the word around in his mind for a moment but soon set it aside to change.   
  


* * *

  
Yawning mightily sometime the next morning, Harry climbed out of bed and stumbled into the lavatory. A warm shower and a clean change of clothes helped him wake up and he wondered, looking at the late hour on his watch, if the house-elves would mind whipping up a little something for his breakfast. As if in response to his thoughts, he heard a faint knocking sound at the door. Expecting to see Dumbledore's tall figure, Harry was surprised to see instead a small form with bat-like ears and a pencil-shaped nose holding a covered tray.   
  
"Hello Dobby!" grinned Harry, "Come on in. How is your summer holiday going?"   
  
"Dobby's holiday is very well, Harry Potter, sir!" the house-elf replied cheerfully, setting the tray on the bedside cabinet. "Dobby is having the honour of bringing Harry Potter breakfast! Professor Dumbledore tells Dobby last night that Harry Potter is returned to Hogwarts for summer!" The house-elf was so excited, he couldn't seem to stand still in one place, hopping elatedly from one striped-socked foot to the next.   
  
"Mmm hmm," Harry nodded, his mouth currently busy with eggs, bacon, and kippers. "I'm here until term starts, hopefully," he said once he had swallowed.   
  
"Is Harry Potter needing anything else?" asked Dobby anxiously, bat-like ears perked up hopefully.   
  
"Well…" Harry started uneasily, "I don't want to impose…."   
  
"Oh! Harry Potter is good, kind…" the large green eyes filled with grateful tears. "But is not imposing. Dobby is doing very little during holiday. Other house-elves are busy cleaning Hogwarts and Dobby is wanting to help Harry Potter."   
  
"Well… I suppose you could do my laundry-" No sooner had he spoken then Dobby snapped his long fingers and suddenly, his arms were full of the clothes Harry had just discarded.   
  
"Doing laundry now, Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby squeaked and then, opening the door magically for himself, skipped out of the room. Harry finished his breakfast and was wondering what to do about the tray when it shimmered slightly, and disappeared.   
  
Twirling his wand a bit jauntily in his good mood, Harry returned his school trunk to it's normal size and seeing nothing else needing done in the room, exited swiftly to hunt down Dumbledore's office. His good mood faded slightly as he continued to walk, not recognizing the corridor. He tried to recall the night before but remembered little except Dumbledore's steady hand on his shoulder, making sure he didn't collapse… _Wait, that painting looks familiar_… Without warning, something crashed into Harry from behind with the force of a good rugby tackle. Harry struggled to throw off the weight on his back and managed to look over his shoulder at his attacker. Big mistake. 


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**   
  
A huge, wet, pink tongue mopped Harry's face enthusiastically, stopping after a moment to give a happy "woof." Harry laughed and wiped his cheek off with a corner of his t-shirt. The big black dog stepped off of Harry's chest and transformed into a thin figure that Harry knew well… "Sirius!" He leapt up and embraced his godfather.   
  
It had been several months since he had seen Sirius Black in person. He had been busy gathering up what Dumbledore had called "the old crowd" and then with them, informing other wizarding folk whom they could trust about Voldemort's resurrection. There were other things that he had been doing that Harry hadn't been informed of. Then right as Sirius planned to come visit Harry the year before during the Christmas holiday, Voldemort had declared open war… Harry shook off the bad memories and grinned at Sirius. His hair, while much cleaner than it had been while he was in Azkaban, had grown almost as long as it was during that time. It now hung to about the middle of his back although it was tied back loosely with a bit of string.   
  
"Surprised to see me?" his godfather grinned.   
  
"I was hoping to see you," Harry confessed, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "But I thought I would have to send Hedwig out after you. How long have you been here?"   
  
"Just arrived actually." A grimness suddenly shadowed Sirius' eyes. "I wanted to stay with Remus during the full moon last night."   
  
"Did he… did he have the Wolfsbane Potion?" asked Harry nervously, worried both for Sirius and Professor Lupin at the same time.   
  
A muscle in Sirius's jaw moved. "No."   
  
"Oh." Harry gulped. He had seen Remus Lupin turn into a werewolf once, during his third year and it had only been Sirius' intervention in the form of Padfoot the big black dog that had saved their lives. It was hard for Harry to reconcile the friendly Professor Lupin with the ferocious beast that he turned into once a month without the aid of the Wolfsbane Potion that rendered the transformation harmless. He knew that Remus and Sirius were close friends, themselves like brothers to his own father James Potter… He shuddered to think how he would feel if Ron were a werewolf. Harry glanced up at his godfather's stony face and knew that he would probably feel the same way that Sirius felt now….   
  
"Snape is one of the only wizards this side of the Channel whom Remus trusts to make the potion accurately. Unfortunately he didn't have time, as we were travelling quite a bit, to give Snape notice that he would need it." Sirius' voice still held the mistrust he had of the Hogwarts Potions Master, but Harry knew that Sirius would respect Dumbledore's wishes to lay aside, at least for awhile, his loathing for the former Death Eater. "Luckily, we found a secure place to spend the night where the wolf could be safely contained. Remus is going to take a day to rest and then will Apparate or travel by Floo as far as Hogsmeade. He should be here at Hogwarts soon after."   
  
"Professor Lupin is coming here?" asked Harry in some surprise, "What for?"   
  
"Well…" Sirius frowned and looked uncomfortable. Seeming to come to a decision after a brief moment of silence he glanced around the empty corridor and lowered his voice. "Dumbledore has asked Remus and I to help test and repair the various wards surrounding Hogwarts. After Vold-- after You-Know-Who declared war last year, the Headmaster feels even more strongly the need to keep Hogwarts as safe as possible."   
  
"All by yourselves?" asked Harry incredulously, "But you don't even have a wand!"   
  
Sirius shook his head. "Not by ourselves; certainly not. The other Hogwarts professors will be doing most of the work but repairing and testing the wards around Hogwarts will take a lot of time and as many trustworthy people as possible. As for not having a wand…" Sirius smiled and flicked his wrist suddenly in an odd motion so that a long wand slid smoothly from the sleeve of his robe into his hand. Harry gaped at it and Sirius laughed.   
  
"No, this isn't my original wand. The Aurors snapped it before I went into Azkaban. Dumbledore had a little chat with Mr. Ollivander who, of course, remembered my old wand and made me a new one."   
  
Harry was confused for a moment, thinking that wizards only had one wand their entire lives but then he quickly realized that wasn't feasible. Aurors probably went through several during times of increased dark magic. He also knew for a fact that Charlie Weasley wasn't using his first wand because Ron had been using it their second year before it broke completely.   
  
"Here we are," announced Sirius with satisfaction as they finally came within view of the gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office. "Treacle tart."   
  
The gargoyle leapt aside and they rode the revolving staircase up to the door. They were bidden to "come in" by a cheery voice after knocking. Dumbledore's circular office hadn't changed much since the last time Harry had been inside it. The portraits of past headmasters were still snoozing gently in their frames, although one bespectacled gentleman awoke as they came in and frowned sternly at their intrusion under his bushy moustache. The black cabinet where Harry's curiosity had once discovered Dumbledore's Pensieve stood safely shut this time, the Sorting Hat behind the desk sat limp and rather bedraggled, Godric Gryffindor's sword glittered brightly in its stand and Fawkes, if his rather sickly appearance was any indication, was fast approaching his Burning Day.   
  
" 'Lo Fawkes," Harry greeted the swan sized phoenix, having a fondness for the creature whose tail feather resided in his wand. Fawkes warbled feebly in reply from his perch.   
  
"Good morning Mr. Potter. Mr. Black, it has been some time since I've had the pleasure of your company," a cool voice greeted them. Harry gulped and suddenly remembered that Sirius had not transformed into the dog before they came up. Professor McGonagall looked at the unregistered Animagus with the stern, disapproving look that Harry had seen directed at himself quite a few times.   
  
Sirius seemed to realize this as well and shifted awkwardly on his feet. "Erm… Good morning, Professor." 


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**   
  
Harry glanced quickly at Dumbledore, sitting placidly in his chair behind the desk. His eyes behind the half-moon spectacles sparkled as he watched the exchange and Harry relaxed, realizing that Dumbledore must have convinced Professor McGonagall that Sirius was innocent.   
  
She was still gazing at Sirius as though he were back in school, in trouble for mischief making. "Albus has informed me of your innocence, Mr. Black." She drew herself up and somehow managed to give the impression of looking down at him from a great height even though Sirius was fairly tall himself.   
  
"Although I must say…" Sirius winced, waiting for the scathing reprimand. "That I've never been more pleased when I heard that you were here to help us." Sirius looked up, surprised. Professor McGonagall smiled and held out her hand. "Welcome back."   
  
Sirius grinned and shook her hand, looking relieved. "Thank you, Professor."   
  
Professor McGonagall shifted her gaze from Sirius to Harry. "I hear that you are to help around at Hogwarts as well, Mr. Potter. I trust your journey from Surrey was uneventful?"   
  
"Yes, Professor. It went well enough," he replied, heading for the extra chair that Dumbledore had conjured for him.   
  
After they were all settled, Dumbledore spoke. "As your godfather has undoubtedly informed you, Harry, the professors with the help of Remus Lupin and Sirius himself are to help repair and strengthen the magical wards that protect Hogwarts. This means that the professors will be unable to organize their classrooms for next year. Normally, the house-elves are the ones who clean up after the school year but they decided earlier last term to clean Hogwarts from top to bottom during the holiday, one of a few thorough cleanings each century. Also, we will be taking a number of house-elves to help us with the wards." At Harry's surprised look he smiled, "House-elves have a very powerful magic of their own and we will doubtless need all the help we can get."   
  
"Professor," Sirius started, leaning forward with a slightly confused frown. "Surely wards of this nature are much too advanced for Harry…" He trailed off as Dumbledore smiled reassuringly.   
  
"Harry will be taking the place of the house-elves in cleaning and organizing the professors' classrooms and, if permitted, their offices."   
  
Harry's face fell. He came to Hogwarts to clean up messes made by other people? He should have stayed with the Dursleys; it would have been no different there. Dumbledore continued as if sensing Harry's train of thought.   
  
"I do not discharge this seemingly trivial occupation lightly, Harry. There are precious few students whom I trust enough to be by themselves in a professor's classroom and use magic responsibly." Harry flushed from the praise but nodded, resolving not to complain further; after all, he _had_ asked to come.   
  
"Now," Dumbledore said, transferring his gaze to Sirius. "We can't have you running about as a dog, Sirius, otherwise you'd be of no use to us. Therefore, I took the liberty of borrowing an aging potion from Severus. We don't want you doddering but certainly older than the infamous Sirius Black is supposed to be…"   
  
Dumbledore rose and walked to his cabinet, searching through it, muttering to himself until he finally withdrew a bottle about the size of Uncle Vernon's expensive brandy in his hand. He conjured a cup and poured just enough of the murky liquid to cover the bottom of it and handed the cup to Sirius who accepted it with a dubious expression.   
  
"Drink up, my boy. The bad taste soon fades," said Dumbledore cheerfully.   
  
Sirius smiled. "I remember what it tastes like-" He stopped himself with a cough, not looking at Professor McGonagall whose gaze had gone stern again. "Bottom's up." He emptied the cup and, grimacing at the taste, settled back in his chair. After a few moments Harry was wondering if Sirius had taken enough when finally he saw the hair around his temples turn grey, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes grow more pronounced, his skin slacken so it was not as firm as youth had held it.   
  
Dumbledore nodded and handed Sirius the whole bottle. "If I remember my potions correctly you'll have to take it every ten hours to ensure its lasting effects. Be sure to take the same size dose. But even aging potion is not quite enough… I have another idea also." His eyes twinkled as he drew out his wand. "Do you mind, Sirius?"   
  
Sirius shook his head, looking a bit confused and even more so as Dumbledore pointed his wand straight at Sirius's chin and muttered: "_Barbatus_." Instantly a dark growth of a beard appeared on Sirius's face and didn't stop growing until Dumbledore said: "_Confuto_." Sirius reached up to feel the new facial hair, grown out just enough to cover the lower half of his face.   
  
"Wow," said Harry, staring, "I'm not even sure I recognise you now, Sirius. You should be all set."   
  
"The real test will be when I see Snape," Sirius said still fingering the new hair on his face. "Although, I suppose you'll let him in on the secret?" He turned to Dumbledore expectantly.   
  
"Eventually, yes," he replied calmly, "I see no reason to leave Severus in the dark especially when he already knows that you've been running around the country exposing yourself to high risk during these dark times."   
  
A sudden knock interrupted any further conversation. Dumbledore waved the door open with a hand. "Ah! I was wondering when you would show up. Please, everyone find a seat." The rest of the Hogwarts professors had just made their entrance into Dumbledore's now crowded office. He conjured a few more seats while Harry glanced around quickly but didn't see the tall, hooked-nose potions master among those shuffling chairs around to make enough room for all.   
  
"Harry, you may leave now," called Dumbledore from his desk, "Dobby will show you where to start…" Harry waved goodbye to Sirius and made his way through the flurry of black robes. Just as he was closing the door behind him, he heard Dumbledore introduce someone who could only be Sirius. "Professors, I'd like you to meet a good friend of mine, Wideric White. He's been out of the country researching werewolves…"   
  
Harry headed down the corridor with no real direction in mind. Dobby wouldn't be in the kitchens would he? The house-elves must have some kind of dormitory for themselves… With no alternative in sight, Harry eventually found his way to the kitchen portal and tickled the pear. With a surprised giggle, the painting swung aside and allowed Harry to enter. The kitchens looked drastically different from the last time Harry had been there; empty except for one lone house-elf mopping the floor in front of the fireplace.   
  
"Er… Hello there," Harry started uncertainly.   
  
The house-elf looked up. All house-elves looked more or less the same but there was something familiar about those large brown eyes and round nose…   
  
"Winky?" 


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**   
  
Poor Winky was so surprised that she dropped her mop and burst into tears.   
  
"Sorry," Harry said uncomfortably, "I didn't mean to scare you…er… bye."   
  
"Oh! Wait, sir!" sniffled Winky, drying her eyes on the edge of her toga. "Is Harry Potter needing anything, sir?" she asked more composedly.   
  
"No, I just… er…." Harry stuttered, a bit taken aback. The last time he had seen Winky, she was sobbing uncontrollably at the feet of her master, Barty Crouch Jr., who was under the influence of Veritaserum. She had been devastated when she was fired from the Crouch household and had been drunk off of butterbeer more than once in an effort to drown her grief and forget her disgrace of being free. "You-you look different Winky."   
  
Winky smiled sadly. "Winky has had time to think things over since last Harry Potter saw," she said in her high squeaky voice. "Winky is… resigned to freedom." She made a face as if still getting used to the word but it was a vast improvement over what she had been two years earlier. "Dobby is helping Winky to understand that getting… paid…" She made another face. "…isn't terrible bad disgrace. Master-Professor Dumbledore is very kind and when Master wants to pay Winky, there is nothing for Winky to do but get paid." Harry grinned. Hermione would be pleased to see Winky's change of heart.   
  
"What is Harry Potter needing?" she asked after a moment of silence, an eager look on her face that spoke volumes of her need to still be useful.   
  
"Er… I was looking for Dobby. Do you know where he is?" asked Harry, quickly collecting his thoughts.   
  
"I is not knowing where Dobby is," she replied rather hastily, mopping the same spot on the floor with furious abandon.   
  
Harry scratched his head in confusion and was about to ask her where she'd last seen him when there was a small _pop_. Dobby materialized right in front of Harry and there was a clatter as Winky again dropped her mop. Dobby and Harry looked at her but before they could say anything, she squeaked loudly and disappeared.   
  
"Winky seems a lot better than… than the last time I saw her," commented Harry to Dobby, who skipped over to pick up the discarded mop.   
  
"Yes, Winky is lots better," replied the nimble house-elf, tapping the mop so that it flew over to a storage cupboard and put itself away. He trotted back to where Harry stood beside the portrait hole. "Winky has been acting strangely. Dobby tries to help but Winky is seeming scared of Dobby." Dobby shook his head in confusion but seemed to put aside the matter as his ears perked up and he looked adoringly at Harry. "What is Harry Potter wanting, sir?"   
  
"Right… er, Dumbledore said you'd help me get started."   
  
"Oh! Dobby remembers!" With an excited squeak he zipped over to a cupboard and soon returned, his arms full of cleaning supplies. "Ready sir!"   
  
Harry looked askance at the bucket, mop, scrubbing brush, and large bottle of Mrs. Skower's All Purpose Magical Mess Remover. "Uh, Dobby? I thought I'd be using magic to clean and stuff."   
  
Dobby's tennis ball sized eyes widened further if possible. "Harry Potter must not be using much magic while professors are repairing wards, sir. Ward-weaving is hard magic, can often be messed up by tiny spell. Harry Potter is to use as little magic as possible for cleaning."   
  
"Oh," Harry's enthusiasm lowered another notch.   
  
They exited the kitchens and decided to go to Professor McGonagall's room first as it was relatively nearer to their location. Harry sighed as they stood in the open doorway and surveyed the large classroom. It was going to be a long summer.   
  


* * *

  
Christopher stepped quietly into the mouth of the alley where Maggie and Michael had first found him. He had spent the better part of the last couple of days traipsing around London, hoping for something, anything to trigger a memory. He'd walked most of the way, not wanting to borrow any more money other than what was necessary for a bite to eat, but even when that came about, it was just as bothersome as he didn't know how much the various coins and paper bills were worth. Finally, after getting directions from a street vendor, he located the alley. It was an offshoot of a quiet street with more residential buildings than commercial. The alley itself wasn't even a true alley; it was more of a tiny, dead-end space in between two flats where, apparently, the residents put out their trash bins for the garbage collector.   
  
There was no logical reason for him to be there. More than a fortnight had passed since he had lain on the dirty asphalt, unconscious and injured. The signs of a struggle, if any had been there in the first place, were gone. His attackers, of course, were long gone; fled before Maggie and Michael saw them. Most of the trash bins were all sitting up, haphazardly arranged in clumps, some overflowing with their contents.   
  
Why on earth would he have been there at all, dressed in flowing black robes and carrying an apparently useless wooden stick? Christopher knew that he hadn't been there on an innocent garbage-disposing mission from his home. When he had first entered the street, a woman had walked up to one of the flats, glanced at him without recognition and had entered her home without a backward glance. He wasn't known here.   
  
A step echoed alarmingly around the enclosed space as a pair of teenagers chattered mindlessly, walking down the street just outside the alley. Christopher frowned at the noise. His attacker or attackers couldn't have surprised him, their footsteps would surely have alerted him…. A thought struck him then, what if he or they had waited for him in the alley? He looked around; the trash bins were too low to hide behind effectively. No, if they had been in the alley before him, then he must have walked into the trap with eyes wide open….   
  
Christopher leaned against the brick wall and massaged his chin with his good hand, brow furrowed in thought. Had it been a trap at all? Had he gone to meet a person or persons yet unknown without knowing that he would end up unconscious in the gutter?   
  
A simple mugging was far easier to explain. After all, there had been nothing in his pockets when he was found, and the stick, presumably, had been clutched too tightly in his hand for anyone to pry out, assuming that it was worth something anyway.   
  
Another thought struck him as he looked around the alley and remembered what Maggie and Michael had told him. They had come upon his body right after the incident, an angry shout alerting them to a problem. But when they had looked in, only he had been there. Where had the attacker gone? The alley was a dead end, there were no doors on either of the walls, and the Childes would have mentioned it if they had seen suspicious persons fleeing from the alley. Mystified, Christopher stared at a scrawny cat rummaging through a tipped over bin.   
  
What had happened that day? 


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**   
  
Christopher wandered down the sidewalk, lost in thought. _People do not simply disappear at will; there must be a logical explanation…._ The very thought that there was no logical explanation was intolerable. He stopped, noticing for the first time that he had absentmindedly walked into a park. Wooden benches lined a pebbly walkway that was relatively empty except for himself. He turned around and headed back towards the exit, hoping to make it back to the Childe's flat in time for tea. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a shadow separate itself from the thick trunk of an oak and glide swiftly after him. Curiously, he only first felt a flash of annoyance rather than fear. Even so, his hand instinctively groped for something in his sleeve that wasn't there.   
  
Fear shivered unpleasantly down his spine as he realized he was utterly defenceless against the unknown danger. So, he did the only thing he could and followed his instincts. _Find a crowd, quickly!_ Unobtrusively picking up his pace, Christopher exited the park and fell into step right behind a large group of touring Americans led by a squat woman with an accent distinctly from the Manchester area. A pair of females eyed him with interest but he was too busy glancing discreetly behind him to notice.   
  
The shadow was gone and the sense of imminent danger he had just felt faded to a heightened wariness. He stayed with the tour group a bit longer before slipping silently into a side street where he made his way to the Childe's flat as quickly as possible.   
  


* * *

  
Harry brushed his hair out of his eyes for the umpteenth time with a sudsy hand, leaving a trail of bubbles that stung slightly on his forehead. Mrs. Skower sure knew how to brew some strong stuff. His hands were protected by a pair of thick black rubber gloves that made his hands smell funny after he took them off.   
  
The hair flopped right back into his eyes as he bent over the desk again, scrubbing furiously at the bits of melted plastic and other unidentifiable materials clinging stubbornly to the surface of Neville Longbottom's old Transfiguration desk.   
  
He'd saved Neville's desk for last. After the few days that he'd already been working on Professor McGonagall's classroom, Harry knew that if any desk would be the hardest, it would be Neville's. Harry shuddered when he thought of Neville's potions table. _That_ would be the worst… especially if Snape decided to take a break from ward-weaving and come torment him with snide comments about him, his unfortunate tendency to get into trouble, his parents... Harry frowned. _No, wait a minute._ Snape had always scorned James Potter openly in front of Harry but he couldn't remember a time when the Potions Master had ever mentioned Lily Potter, his mother. Strange that he'd never noticed that before. Harry wondered why. Perhaps Lily had been a shy girl and had been largely ignored by Snape. No, that didn't sound right. Neville was very shy and Snape seemed to enjoy tormenting him as often as possible even when Neville was doing something right in class, which, Harry admitted to himself, wasn't often.   
  
"Hard at work, Cinderella?"   
  
Harry jerked his head up, prepared to give the laughing voice a piece of his mind. All words left his mouth, however, when he saw the speaker. Remus Lupin leaned against the doorjamb to the classroom, chuckling quietly. Aside from a few more silver hairs and a tiredness in his face, Professor Lupin looked much like he had the last time Harry had seen him three years before.   
  
"That'll be ten points for your cheek, Professor," Harry grinned and stood, "Did you just get here?"   
  
"About an hour ago," Lupin replied walking further into the classroom, his patched robes looking much more frayed than Harry remembered. "And please," he continued offering his hand to Harry, "call me Remus. I'm not a professor any more."   
  
Just as Harry pulled off his gloves to shake Lupin's hand, Sirius appeared at the open door. "There you are, Remus!" he said, sounding a bit annoyed. "Dumbledore wants to start on the wards on the western side right away."   
  
Remus nodded and smiled at Harry. "I'll talk to you later, Harry. I want to have a chance to catch up."   
  
"Sure," he replied and went back to work on Neville's desk.   
  


* * *

  
A few days later, Harry sneezed from the dust on an ancient book that Professor Flitwick liked to use as his step stool. He reached for the feather duster again, wishing that the dust wouldn't make his eyes itch so much….   
  
"Ah-choo!" he sneezed again, stirring up another cloud of dust. _This is ridiculous_, thought Harry looking around vainly for a box of tissues to mop up his nose. _I have to get some fresh air… perhaps Dumbledore will allow me to cast an anti-allergen charm on myself…_   
  
Stumbling to his feet, Harry walked quickly out of the room 


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**   
  
"Minerva, have you seen Severus lately?"   
  
Professor McGonagall turned from her contemplation of the large glowing hole that they were trying to fix in the outermost ward of Hogwarts' western side.   
  
"No, Albus. Why do you ask?" She wondered absently if they might be able to send up a few of the house-elves, who were busy bowing themselves nearly to the ground every time a professor approached, to look and see how the edges of the hole looked. Perhaps they might be able to patch it instead of reweaving the entire ward.   
  
"Well, he told me that he was running an errand in London but he would be back after three days at the most. He was in a desperate hurry and probably wouldn't even have told me if I hadn't seen him running down the corridor like Hagrid's pet Fluffy was at his heels. It's been nearly a fortnight since he left, however, and I haven't seen a trace of him." His tone was genial but the usual sparkle was absent from the aged wizard's eyes and the fine lines on his forehead were deepening in worry. "It's not like him to be gone when I specifically requested his help on the ward-weaving."   
  
Professor McGonagall turned from her contemplation of the glowing hole to the Headmaster, her expression concerned. "You don't think that You-Know-Who…?"   
  
"I hope not, Minerva. I sincerely hope not." Dumbledore fell silent. Professor McGonagall was always unnerved to see him worried. Dumbledore was one of the wisest wizards she knew and anything he was worried about was usually worth looking into.   
  
She tried to cheer him up. "Who knows, Albus? We may be worrying without provocation. Perhaps the Ministry wanted a full report of his summer spying duties; that would certainly take at least an extra day. He may even be here at Hogwarts already, immersed in brewing a complex potion. You know how he gets, Albus, he forgets everything in light of his work." She paused a moment. "And if Vold--You-Know-Who has summoned him, we might not see him for awhile and he would not want to risk his position by sending you a message."   
  
"As always, you are correct, Minerva." Dumbledore smiled at her. "However, I will sleep much easier knowing that he is safe." His expression brightened as he looked at someone over Minerva's shoulder. "Ah! Harry! How are you coming along?"   
  
"Spiffing," he replied with a sneeze. "Professor, can I please cast a anti-allergen charm on myself? I can't work around Professor Flitwick's books without snee-snee…. AH-CHOO!" Harry swiped uselessly at his nose. "Sneezing," he finished, sniffling loudly.   
  
"Gesundheit," replied Dumbledore serenely, offering Harry a blue handkerchief covered with yellow stars.   
  
"Thag you," said Harry from behind the handkerchief.   
  


~o~

  
_The wind whipped around the small figure shrouded in black, ruffling the tattered and patched cloak so that it blew out dramatically around the thin frame that wore it, like the wings of a fallen angel. Aside from the whistling wind and the occasional call of a sea bird, the chalky white cliffs of the Sussex Downs were silent, peaceful even; a welcome change to the tumult that normally raged in the boy's mind night and day. A violent shiver passed through him; he always got colder when meals were scarce and this had been his longest stretch yet-- five days without a square meal. But he loved the Downs… it had been too long since he had breathed in the salty air, feeling, just for a brief moment, that he was on top of the world._   
  
Christopher awakened in the early hours of the morning, almost tasting the salt spray on his lips. That had been the most vivid memory yet but he had been young, no more than ten years old he thought.   
  
Staring into the darkness of his room where the digital clock shone the third hour of the morning, Christopher tried in vain to get the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks far below out of his mind.   
  


~o~

  
"At last," Harry groaned, sliding into a booth at The Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. Saturday afternoon had arrived and he finally had a break from the scrubbing, dusting, and sweeping that had occupied him all week. He grabbed one of the frothy mugs of butterbeer sitting on the tray in front of him and gulped down nearly half of it without stopping. He grinned at the twin expressions of amusement from Sirius and Remus. "Do you know how long I've waited to relax and have a butterbeer?"   
  
"A long time, I'm guessing," commented Lupin dryly, reaching for his own mug.   
  
"They giving you enough work?" asked Sirius, swiping at his neatly trimmed beard with a napkin where some of his drink had dribbled.   
  
"Let's just say that I hope to never clean another one of Neville Longbottom's desks again," Harry sighed.   
  
Remus chuckled. "And you haven't even started the Potions classroom yet, am I right Harry?"   
  
"Don't remind me," he groaned. "I realize now that melting things must be a special talent of Neville's, not restricted to cauldrons."   
  
Sirius laughed and signalled to Madam Rosmerta for a platter of sandwiches. "Makes me glad I never decided to teach," he said, nudging Remus in the ribs.   
  
"That makes two of us," he rejoined, taking a long swig out of his mug. "So, Mr. White," Remus began, as soon as Harry had stopped snorting into his drink with laughter. "Has anyone suspected anything?"   
  
Sirius smirked. "Not a thing, as far as I'm able to tell. Only the ol' greaseball would be able to identify me correctly, and I haven't seen him the entire time I've been here."   
  
Remus looked thoughtful. "Now that you mention it, you're right. I haven't seen Severus either." A flicker of worry appeared in his eyes. "I hope he returns soon." He lowered his voice, "The Wolfsbane Potion must be brewed soon."   
  
Sirius set down his mug with a thud and ran a hand through his hair. "That slimy git better not have bailed out on Dumbledore or you," he growled.   
  
"Severus may not like me, but he'd never betray Dumbledore's trust," soothed Remus.   
  
Sirius looked at him and then quickly away. "Yeah," he said softly. "Like me."   
  
Harry squirmed uncomfortably.   
  
"Sirius! Stop that!" commanded Remus in a voice Harry had never heard him use. "That is in the past; it is over and done with. Severus would have found out about my condition with or without your help. He's nosy enough and smart enough to have discovered it on his own. Besides, it would have been necessary to tell him when I taught at Hogwarts during Harry's third year. No one else can make the Potion."   
  
"We tried!" Sirius said through clenched teeth as though angry with himself.   
  
"Yes you did, but you were always dismal at Potions. Peter was even worse, and James' best subject was Transfiguration," Remus said, the corner of his mouth quirking up in smile. "I, of course, can't even touch the stuff until it's been brewed."   
  
"Why not?" asked Harry suddenly. They both looked at him and he felt his ears go red. "Sorry," he mumbled.   
  
Remus smiled. "It's okay, Harry. The Wolfsbane Potion is such a big part of my life, I forget that not everyone knows the recipe." He grabbed another sandwich from the platter before continuing. "The potion has to be brewed in a cauldron lined with pure silver. A silver stirring rod is also required. As you know, werewolves are rather…. allergic to silver."   
  
The sandwiches arrived just then and for a several minutes, the silence remained unbroken.   
  
The rest of their time there was spent catching up with what had been happening in their lives since they had seen one another and no more talk of werewolves, or the difficult Wolfsbane Potion, intruded again. 


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**   
  
The following week Harry worked with Hagrid and tried to subtly discourage the half-giant groundskeeper about using the three-headed dog Fluffy as the coming year's subject for Care of Magical Creatures. The week went surprisingly fast and Harry was sorry to leave Hagrid's comfortable hut and the daily tramps around Hogwarts' grounds with Fang loping along at their side. Even the walks into the normally creepy Forbidden Forest (mostly to collect some runaway plants from Professor Sprout's greenhouses) had been pleasant.   
  
But, as the old cliché says, good things never last and Harry was soon swirling a double-chocolate malt despondently with his spoon on his last weekend in Hogsmeade before he would have to go back to work… in the Potions classroom.   
  
"Cheer up, Harry," Remus said, patting his arm from across the table at The Three Broomsticks. "After all, _if_ Severus is there, he'll have to leave right away to help the rest of us with the wards. If he's not there, well… then you have nothing to worry about."   
  
Harry looked up. Remus seemed unconcerned but was it Harry's imagination or did his former professor look more worn out than usual? "But what about you, Remus?" he asked quietly, "What if Snape is gone on some spying thing? He could be gone for weeks."   
  
Remus made no answer for a moment. Finally, he sighed and gave Harry a wan smile. "Well… I suppose that the Shrieking Shack will be haunted again, for the first time in nearly twenty years." He sounded brave but Harry could see the weight of his condition settle on his thin frame more heavily than Harry could remember. Without Snape to make the Wolfsbane Potion, the wolf would come and with it excruciating pain, a beastly hunger for flesh, and an unbearable loneliness that only Sirius had managed to carve the top off of in the form of Padfoot.   
  
Harry was struck with a sudden anger at the unknown werewolf who had bitten Remus. Remus was a good man, a brilliant wizard, and almost like an uncle to him now that the barrier of the classroom was gone. What had Remus ever done to anyone to deserve such a curse? Harry didn't know how Remus had treated Snape when they were at Hogwarts together but he did know one thing: Snape would make that potion whether he liked it or not, Harry would see to that.   
  


* * *

  
The next Monday, Harry made his way down the narrow staircase that led to the dungeon classroom, cleaning supplies held in a large bucket that kept hitting him in the knees. Inhaling sharply and, steeling himself to withstand the potion master's snide comments, Harry pushed the door to the dungeon classroom open. The room was dark, the torches along the wall that usually provided the light were burned down and the spicy scent that usually invaded his nose when he entered the room was muted and musty as if the ingredients hadn't been used for a long time and were now covered with dust.   
  
Harry set down his cleaning supplies as quietly as possible and headed towards the door that led to Snape's office and private laboratory, hoping that he would be there. He hadn't been among the professors now working on the northern side of the school, and after asking Dobby and various chatty portraits in the corridor, Harry had been forced to look in the last but most obvious place for the hook-nosed professor.   
  
He raised his hand above the door, preparing to knock. _Remember, Remus needs this potion. Endure whatever the slimy git has to say, as long as he'll make the potion._ He knocked on the dark wood and to his surprise, the door swung open slightly.   
  
"Professor Snape?" Cautiously, Harry opened the door wider. "I'm sorry to disturb you but I wanted to ask…." His words trailed off, swallowed by the stale air of the dungeon as he saw that the office was empty. Harry stepped forward and carefully opened the door to the small, private laboratory adjacent to the office; it too was empty. Stepping back into the office, Harry scratched his head in confusion.   
  
Parchment was scattered on the floor, as if a violent wind had swept by. Other than that, the office was surprisingly neat and orderly. The last time he had been in here, he had been too wrapped up in the disappointment of not seeing the Sorting Ceremony and eating sandwiches with Ron to notice much of the surrounding room. Two walls had floor-to-ceiling shelves that were covered with many bottles and jars filled with suspicious looking items that Harry would rather not examine too closely. The other wall was taken up completely by ancient looking books that looked surprisingly clean, not dreadfully dusty like the ones in Flitwick's room…. Harry heard a crunch under his foot and hurriedly stepped off a stack of scattered parchment.   
  
He picked them up to get them out of the way and absently looked at the writing on the top one.   
  
_"Dear Professor Snape,   
  
_The Caliginous Cauldron _is most delighted to receive your latest submission entitled 'Young or Old: The Importance of Age in Selecting Jobberknoll Feathers for Various Potions.' Your composition upon the peculiar effects of feathers from a young Jobberknoll as opposed to more mature feathers for the use of several potions is a very welcome addition to our scholarly journal…"_   
  
Harry quickly put the stack of parchment on the desk, feeling intrusive and strangely disjointed. The thought of Snape as a scholarly writer, as a scientist of sorts had never occurred to him. Snape was always Snape: greasy, scowling, sallow, thin, ready to take away points from Gryffindor on a whim. But now, Snape the intelligent Potions Master was beginning to emerge and Harry found, to his dismay, a grudging respect starting to form for his absent professor.   
  
Speaking of which, where in the wizarding world was he?   
  


* * *

  
Harry hurried over the wide grounds of Hogwarts, towards a tall bearded figure dressed in bright sparkling blue; it was Dumbledore, of course. The other professors, it looked like, were taking a break from ward-weaving for afternoon tea. Professor McGonagall was busy transfiguring various trees and bushes into a table and enough chairs for everyone while a couple of house-elves came trotting up, toting a large basket full of food and a tea set.   
  
Dumbledore had just settled down in a chair when Harry ran up. "What is it Harry?" he asked, accepting a cup of tea from the bowing house-elf with a nod of thanks.   
  
"Do you know where Professor Snape is?" he asked, slightly winded.   
  
Dumbledore's expression clouded slightly. "I'm afraid not, Harry. He's missing."   
  
"Missing!"   
  
"Yes. He left in a great hurry about two weeks ago to run an errand in London." Dumbledore sighed and suddenly Harry realized how much Dumbledore cared about his staff members. "I won't deny that I am deeply concerned by his absence. It isn't like Severus to run off without leaving me word of his whereabouts."   
  
"Can't you alert the Ministry or something? Surely they have detectives or something of that sort…" asked Harry desperately.   
  
"I have been reluctant to inform the Ministry of anything concerning Severus. Despite my vouching for his character, the minute they see him stray, or what they perceive as straying, he'll be back in Azkaban. And, most likely, he won't ever get out again."   
  
Harry clenched his fists, willing the memory of the cold despair that the Dementors inspired away from his mind. "He must be found, Professor!" He looked around, saw that Lupin was safely on the far side of the table, talking pleasantly with Professor Vector and lowered his voice a notch. "What about Remus? The full moon is on August 14, less than a month way."   
  
"I know, Harry," Dumbledore replied quietly, "No one else here has the skill to make the Wolfsbane Potion and even if they did, I couldn't spare them from the ward-weaving. We're short on available wizards as it is." After a pause he sighed. "If worse comes to worse, the Shrieking Shack is just as capable in housing Remus now as when it did nineteen years ago."   
  
Harry fell silent. He hated to think of Remus being all alone for the painful and terrifying transformation. Outwardly, he nodded and returned slowly back to the castle, deep in thought.   
  
Harry remained quiet and thoughtful the rest of the week as he cleaned the Potions classroom, forgetting even in his musings the horrible state of Neville's desk. What he was thinking about was no trivial matter; Harry knew that Snape had the recipe for the Wolfsbane Potion and as he had made it for Remus during his third year, Harry also knew that Snape had to have most if not all of the ingredients required for the potion. What if… what if Harry made the potion? Harry's grades in Potions were excellent. They had not always been but it seemed that within the last year or so, the subject had become a lot easier and although he disliked the class because of the teacher, he enjoyed, as Snape had once put it, "the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron." There was a distinct satisfaction in seeing a potion well made, bubbling gently until bottled up or used for its intended purpose.   
  
But the Wolfsbane Potion was such a difficult one that Sirius had mentioned that Snape was the only one whom Remus trusted to make it accurately. Then again, everyone had thought that surviving "Avada Kedavra" was impossible too. Harry snorted as he slopped more of Mrs. Skower's All Purpose Magical Mess Remover onto Neville's charred desk. Harry had not only survived the Killing Curse but he had faced Voldemort three times, four counting the horrible night his parents died, and lived to tell the tale. Surely a potion would be, if not easy, then an interesting challenge.   
  
_Whoa… slow down, Harry_, he thought, resisting the urge to take out his wand and banish Neville's desk to the other end of the world. _This is Remus we're talking about, not some stupid prank with Ron_. Harry felt a pang of loneliness, thinking of his best friend. He hoped that it was nice in Romania but he wished that Ron and Hermione would hurry back. Thinking of them, Harry decided to wait a few days more. After all, Snape might show up and it wouldn't do at all if Harry were caught raiding Snape's personal stores for a highly advanced potion that was probably illegal for someone his age to make.   
  


* * *

  
A few days later, there was still no word from the absent Potions Master. Harry had been growing impatient with each passing day and finally he could stand it no longer. Quietly, Harry set aside his cleaning supplies and again stepped inside Snape's office. His green eyes fell on the faded spines of Snape's personal library. *The recipe is here somewhere and…. Harry's eyes swept over to the two walls filled with Snape's personal potion stores. _All the ingredients are undoubtedly there…_ Harry gulped, what he was thinking about doing was probably against several laws… Remus might be angry with him for even attempting such a difficult potion. Harry didn't even want to think about what Snape would say if he saw that Harry had used his personal potions ingredients.   
  
Torn with indecision, Harry bit his lip and his eye suddenly caught a slight sparkle from something on the fireplace mantle. He walked over and looked. It was Fire-Talking Powder. Now _that_ was something that would help... Harry dug out his wand and only hesitated briefly before pointing at the fireplace and muttering "_Incendio_." The professors would still be taking their break for afternoon tea so using this little bit of magic wouldn't do any harm.   
  
Taking a pinch of the powder, Harry sprinkled it on the roaring flames and said "Romania: Charles Weasley's House" loudly, trying not to cough from the smoke. The flames licking upwards around the brick turned pink. Harry leaned farther forward. "Hermione? Are you there? It's Harry. I need your help…" 


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12>**   
  
This time he was sure of it. He was being followed. Christopher walked as nonchalantly as he was able down the busy sidewalk of Tottenham Court Road. The young man behind him moved almost effortlessly through the throng of people as he did. But Christopher sensed that his follower was somehow inexperienced. For one thing, the young man was painfully obvious among the throng of causally dressed people with his orange plaid pants, mismatched socks, and a hideous green shirt covered by a brown jacket that was too short in the arms.   
  
The teenager suddenly tripped and nearly stumbled into a portly bald man in a business suit. _Over-zealous as well,_ Christopher smirked. But however inept the young men seemed, for he had over the past few days noticed two different teenagers following him, he knew instinctively that they were dangerous. Staying with the crowds had so far been his only defence but he knew that wouldn't last long.   
  
The corpulent businessman turned a fascinating shade of crimson and started to bellow at the badly clothed teenager. Christopher saw his chance in the distraction and hurried away in the direction of Charing Cross Road.   
  


* * *

  
Harry dusted the ashes off of his clothing as he stepped out of the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron. He couldn't wait to get his Apparation license; Apparating had to be more comfortable than broomsticks, the Floo network, and portkeys. He rubbed his eyes; they were itching again; probably from the soot.   
  
Waving genially to Tom the barkeep, Harry made his way out the back to the bricked entrance to Diagon Alley. "Three up, two across," he muttered to himself, drawing out his wand and tapping the bricks. Like every time he had been there, the bricks pulled themselves apart to form the arch that was the entrance to Diagon Alley.   
  
Throwing a longing glance at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, Harry patted his pocket to make sure his money was still there and headed towards Slug & Jiggers Apothecary. After finding and reading the complicated recipe for the Wolfsbane Potion, Harry had found nearly every ingredient for it in Snape's stores. Only a few ingredients were either too old to use or were nearly empty, but thankfully he thought that they should be easy to replace and not very expensive.   
  
Hermione had been extremely reluctant to help at first; bossily informing him of the odds of his concocting the right Wolfsbane Potion without the aid of a licensed potions master. Crossly, Harry had asked her if the reason she didn't want to help him was because she was too busy spending time with Ron. Hermione's face had turned a brilliant shade of red that nearly made her head disappear in the flaming fireplace. She eventually agreed to help, if only to prevent Harry from poisoning himself and Remus in the process.   
  
Harry gazed at the hundreds of jars filling the shelves of the apothecary. They didn't seem to be in any particular order…   
  
"May I help you?"   
  
Harry turned and blinked in surprise. "Ginny!"   
  
Ginny Weasley blushed scarlet to the roots of her flaming red hair. "Oh! Er… Hullo… Um, Harry."   
  
"Er… Hi… Are you working here?" Harry said trying to turn the awkward moment around. Ginny hadn't changed much from the past school year. She was still slender, still fair skinned with a smattering of freckles across her nose, and still had a head of flaming red hair, now pulled back in a simple long braid.   
  
"Yes, Mr. Slug's son was at Hogwarts with Charlie… They needed someone to watch the shop and I got the job." Ginny shrugged modestly, seeming to get over her initial shyness as she straightened into a more professional pose. "What do you need?"   
  
Harry handed her the list. She glanced over it and looked back up at Harry, a quizzical look in her brown eyes. "Fluxweed, Nightshade, vinegar and fresh Mandrake? Harry… what potion is this for?"   
  
Harry winced. "Well… It's kind of a secret…" he mumbled, glancing away.   
  
Ginny's face went carefully blank. "Oh. I see," she replied coolly. She started to walk towards the back of the store.   
  
"Ginny, wait," Harry said, sighing. She turned and regarded him politely. He walked closer and lowered his voice, after glancing around to make sure no other patron was within listening distance. "It's for the Wolfsbane Potion," he said quietly and quickly explained why he was at Hogwarts, including Snape's disappearance and the coming of the full moon.   
  
"If I don't make it, Remus will be have to endure the extremely painful transformation by himself." He took a deep breath. "Hermione's going to help me from the fireplace but I need those ingredients because Snape is out of them. Please, Ginny?"   
  
She didn't move at once but her eyes softened and she nodded. "Come on, I know where most of these are."   
  
With surprising quickness, Ginny found all the ingredients Harry needed except for the vinegar that the Apothecary was regrettably out of.   
  
"Now what?" groaned Harry, "I have to start the potion soon or it won't do any good at all."   
  
Ginny bit her lip in thought and suddenly brightened. "I know where we might get some; follow me."   
  
Curiously, Harry followed her out of the Apothecary back through the entrance to Diagon Alley and into the Leaky Cauldron. Harry left his packages with Tom and they went out onto Charing Cross Road.   
  
"There's a Muggle grocery store just down the street," Ginny said, ignoring the odd looks directed at her wizarding robes from passers-by on the street.   
  
"Er... Ginny... Do you know how to use Muggle money?" Harry asked, glad that he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.   
  
Ginny reddened slightly but kept walking. "No," she admitted, "But you do so that's all that matters."   
  
They walked so far that they were almost to Tottenham Court Road. The crowd was starting to thicken as they got closer to the junction and Harry occasionally lost sight of Ginny. Her flaming red hair served as his only beacon.   
  
Harry was suddenly jostled violently by a tall man who wasn't watching where he was going. Harry's glasses were knocked askew and he had to apologize to an elderly lady as he accidentally bumped into her as well.   
  
"Hey!" he said, irritated, as the man swept past, not even apologizing. Harry's complaint died in his throat as he caught a quick glimpse of the man's profile: hooked nose, narrow chin...   
  
Harry dodged through the crowd, after the black haired man. _It can't be..._ he thought, trying vainly to catch up with the man. _Professor Snape?_ The man ducked into a side street and Harry was about to follow when he felt a hand on his arm.   
  
"Harry! What are you doing? The store is this way," Ginny said, tugging at his hand.   
  
"I thought I saw Professor Snape," he replied, standing up on his tiptoes to see over the crowd. It was too late; the man had vanished.   
  
"Was he wearing his robes?" asked Ginny quizzically, "I didn't see him walk by and wizard robes are pretty hard to miss in a crowd of Muggles."   
  
Harry shook his head. "No. He was dressed like a Muggle. If it wasn't for that nose of his, I probably wouldn't have thought it was him at all." Harry frowned as he thought more about the man he had seen. "He was carrying his left arm funny... almost as if it was broken..."   
  
"Then it couldn't have been Professor Snape, Harry," Ginny said reasonably, "Wizards can fix broken bones with a simple charm. You of all people should know that, as many times as you've been in the hospital wing. Besides," she continued, seeing Harry nod thoughtfully. "I think Professor Snape is a pureblood. I don't think he would know how to dress like a Muggle properly."   
  
"What does being a pureblood have to do with that?" wondered Harry, rubbing his itching eyes again. _Must be something in the air…_   
  
"Most purebloods have no need to be in the Muggle world at all," replied Ginny, guiding him once again down the street. "And some consider it beneath them to dress like Muggles… the Malfoys are a good example." She suddenly stopped in front of a small building. "Here we are!" 


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**   
  
Christopher risked a glance behind him again but did not see the boy with shaggy black hair and a pair of strangely familiar green eyes.   
  
Who was that boy? Why had he looked at Christopher with that peculiar expression? Was he another one of the followers? The young man's emerald gaze haunted Christopher as he continued to walk, not really noticing where he was going. Why were those eyes so familiar yet so oddly disturbing?   
  
Lost in his thoughts, Christopher didn't notice the grimy little man peek out of the doorway of a rather rundown pub whose faded sign proclaimed it to be The Leaky Cauldron.   
  
"Oy!" the man said, waving a dirt-crusted hand covered by a fingerless glove. "Professor! Did yer git me owl?"   
  
Christopher stopped and stared as the man stepped out onto the street. The short man was dressed in a colourless coat and labourer's pants, both were much frayed and patched. Over it was a brownish robe of sorts…   
  
"I beg your pardon?" he said coolly, stepping back. "Do I know you?"   
  
The man cocked his head and scratched a matted tuft of hair that might be brown after a few dozen washings. "O' course yer do!" he chuckled, revealing several missing teeth. "Ol' Jack 'ere 'as been 'elping wif yer… er… uh… duties for more'n five years now."   
  
Christopher stared at the man intently. Could it be? Did this man know him? 'Ol' Jack' had called him 'Professor' but for all he knew it could be a nickname or perhaps he had once taught but no longer did.   
  
The little man was speaking again, twisting a tattered and stained handkerchief in his hands. "…I know yer a busy wizard, Professor… but if it weren't no trouble, could I 'ave another spot o' that potion yer were fixin' for me little gel Matilda? O' course, 'er eyes'll never be quite as good as before but that stuff yer brewed for 'er 'as 'elped like Merlin's own magic…"   
  
"I don't know what you're talking about-" Christopher replied with a scowl. The little man looked away with a hurt expression and, inexplicably, Christopher felt a stab of guilt.   
  
_"Stupefy!"_   
  
With an instinct that he didn't know he possessed, Christopher ducked, crouching so that his thin frame was folded double. Jack suddenly fell over with a thump, as if pushed violently by a giant invisible hand. A long, thin stick rolled out of his pocket and stopped a few feet in front of Christopher. Without thinking, he lunged for it and stood, facing the opposite direction where the shout had come from.   
  
The other teenager, a boy with long brown hair, just as badly dressed as his counterpart, stood in a stance that reminded Christopher somehow of duelling.   
  
The boy walked cautiously closer, his own dark stick clutched tightly in a hand that was pointed straight at Christopher's heart.   
  
"No closer," Christopher warned in a dangerous voice, bringing the grimy man's stick… _no… a wand…_ to bear. Disoriented for a moment by the returning memory, Christopher simply scowled blankly into the silence while the boy looked unsure. Now that he was closer, Christopher could plainly see that the teenager was younger than he had originally thought. He was certainly tall enough to be an adult but his face was still youthfully smooth and unmarred, almost like he had never shaved before.   
  
The boy rallied his courage again and drew a breath while raising his wand. Christopher braced himself and raised the borrowed wand… but nothing came. He had no idea what to do with it. _It's a magic wand you idiot! Say a magic word!_ But he couldn't remember any… and he had a feeling that "Abracadabra" wouldn't be enough. Also, the borrowed wand felt wrong somehow, almost as if it didn't quite fit into his hand…   
  
_Stupefy! Say "Stupefy" you fool!_   
  
"_Stupefy!_" Like a jolt of electricity, Christopher felt the spell resonate faintly inside him and go out through the focus of the wand. The spell hit the boy square in the chest and he flew backwards, landing with a sickening thud against a building's brick wall where he slid to the ground and lay still. Christopher waited for the horror to build inside him, the shame, and the guilt that he might have just taken a life. Surprisingly, he felt nothing except revulsion at himself when he realized that he had done this - and much worse - many times before. He couldn't pinpoint any single memory, it was more of a feeling, a knowing and a cool familiarity with violence.   
  
Christopher looked down at the borrowed wand still clenched in his hand and felt a sudden urge to throw it far away. _What kind of a man am I?_   
  
_"Expelliarmus!"_   
  
The spell nearly knocked Christopher off his feet. The borrowed wand flew into the air, was caught and pocketed casually by the other teenager. This boy was obviously more confident than his colleague; his face revealed a maturity that the other teenager had lacked and by the effectiveness of the spell from his distance indicated a powerful talent that Christopher did not want to stay to investigate 


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**  
_"… memory is the only way home."_  
-Terry Tempest Williams  
  
Christopher spared one glance at the boy's garish Muggle outfit and ran, knowing that without a wand, he was defenceless. A part of him rebelled against running away like a coward but the logical side of his mind prevailed.   
  
Luck, however, was not with him. He turned the first corner he saw and belatedly realized that it was a dead end.   
  
Christopher swore under his breath and started to turn around when he heard the sound of a single set of footsteps approach the mouth of the alley.   
  
There was nowhere else to go. He was trapped. Determined to put up whatever fight he could, Christopher spun around. The young man stepped forward confidently, a sneer twisting his youthful face.   
  
"What do you want?" growled Christopher, his long fingers twitching instinctively towards his sleeve for his own wand.   
  
The young man glared and pointed his wand at Christopher's chest. "Don't play dumb, Professor Snape. We have to go. Now."   
  
Professor.   
  
Christopher's mind whirled. Perhaps he had been a teacher and this boy had been his student. If so, maybe some lingering respect for authority would still sway him….   
  
Christopher straightened to his full height and looked down his nose at the youth. "I'm not going anywhere," he hissed contemptuously, eyes flashing. The teenager hesitated a brief moment, uncertainty making his wand-hand waver slightly. Christopher's brief flare of triumph was interrupted by a searing pain that exploded on his left forearm.   
  
_He's calling… must leave… must… my Master…No!_   
  
"NO!" he shouted audibly above the pain. The young man, his eyes wide with genuine fear, was clenching his left forearm as well and, stepping back, he disappeared with a soft *pop*.   
  
Through the burning pain, Christopher managed to register one fact: people could, and did disappear into thin air at will.   
  


* * *

  
Wearily, Christopher entered the fourth story flat belonging to his temporary caretakers. The pain in his left forearm had eventually faded to a dull throb but he still clutched it with his other hand, as if that would somehow alleviate the pain.   
  
"Christopher? Is your arm hurting?" Maggie looked up worriedly from the piano where she had idly been playing a soft, relaxing tune.   
  
"No," he replied quickly, dropping the offending arm to his side. "It itches." The lie fell smoothly from his tongue and Maggie seemed to believe it as she turned back to the keyboard. He watched her for a moment, envying the simple life she and her husband led. Michael enjoyed writing stories for children and Maggie found purpose in volunteering her piano playing skills at the local church. Their lives would go on quietly, undisturbed for the most part and peaceful. _Unless…_   
  
Christopher stood and watched a moment longer, than walked slowly to his room. The open door of the closet beckoned to him and he reached in to touch the robes hanging elegantly in a spill of ebony fabric. Slowly, as if by some force not his own, he reached into the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out his wand. He raised the wand, clutching it in his hand like a talisman. He stared at the robe again and then back at the slender wand. Slowly, something rose through the blank void of his memory…   
  
"I am Professor Severus Snape, a wizard," he said quietly to the empty room.   
  


* * *

  
An hour later, Snape paused in the living room before his final departure of the good people who had been so generous in opening up their home to an injured man who didn't even know his own name.   
  
He inhaled deeply and stepped towards the door.   
  
"Christopher? Where are you going?" Maggie's quizzical voice cut through the silence like a knife.   
  
Snape winced. He had hoped to leave unnoticed. It would have been better that way… _but it can't be helped now…_   
  
He turned and Maggie frowned at something she saw in his face. It looked suspiciously like despair…   
  
"I've remembered my name and I'm going home." That wasn't strictly true. He had only remembered his name and even that wasn't much. They were merely two words; one meaning 'strict' and the other sounding suspiciously like 'snake' but it was the biggest victory over his lost memory that he had. 'Home' would be a place safely away from the Childe's where the teenagers and whoever they were working for wouldn't find him…   
  
Maggie's face brightened, smoothing out the fine lines on her face. "Your name? That's wonderful! What is it? Michael and I would love to visit you."   
  
Snape looked straight into her eyes, deciding to offer her the truth… the little he knew of it. "Mrs. Childe," he began slowly, making sure she understood, "I am a… I am dangerous to have around. I'm not sure what kind of trouble I'm in but the less you know the better."   
  
"Trouble?" she repeated quietly, worry filling her eyes. "What kind of trouble? Perhaps you can go to the police?"   
  
Snape shook his head, causing long black strands to fall over his eyes. "The police would do no good. They'd only endanger themselves." She started to protest again and he scowled, his patience wearing thin. "I'm leaving for your benefit! I do not know everything about myself yet, but I will go to a safe place where I can get help." Maggie stepped back, startled. With an effort, Snape forced his voice to be calm. "You have been very generous to me, Mrs. Childe, but please trust me on this. You do not want someone like me around for much longer."   
  
Maggie closed her eyes briefly and then opened them, a strange, understanding clarity in her eyes. "Is there anything else I can do for you before you leave?"   
  
Snape's heart constricted. If only his childhood memories had included a person like her…. "Forget me," he said simply and walked out the door. 


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**   
  
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" grinned Ginny as she and Harry neared The Leaky Cauldron.   
  
Harry reddened and mumbled something under his breath. In the Muggle grocery store, Harry had been so distracted by the odd looks and comments directed towards Ginny's robes that he had tripped over a candy stand and had spectacularly fallen on his face, breaking his glasses. Ginny, meanwhile, found the vinegar and Harry, with a bump on his head, counted out the pounds and pence for the cashier. It was only a few moments ago when they were alone in the street that Harry dared to take out his wand to repair the crack in his lens.   
  
"Hey, what's going on?" Harry asked, seeing a few wizards hovering around the entrance to The Leaky Cauldron, and more than glad to get Ginny's attention off of himself.   
  
Ginny frowned. "I don't know… but see that tallish wizard in the dark blue robes? That's Mr. Billings, he works for the Ministry with Dad."   
  
They approached the wizard but he was busy talking to a small, grimy man who was sitting on the ground, his head in his hands as if it ached.   
  
"I tol yer once, an' I tol yer twice, I don't know wot 'appened to me wand. It were stole! Surely yer bungle-heads at the Ministry can see a robbery when it wallops yer in the 'ead!"   
  
"Jack, you've been warned before about doing magic in front of Muggles. Just because you were right outside a wizarding establishment in no way exonerates you of the charge," said the wizard Ginny had pointed out, in a weary sounding voice as if what he was saying was something that had been said far too many times.   
  
" 'Ow was I ter do magic when me wand wasn't even in me 'and?" whined Jack, "I tol yer, that rapscallion over der were the one that prolly took it!"   
  
Harry and Ginny looked to where Jack's grimy finger pointed. Another wizard, presumably Ministry as well, was holding a teenager's arms to his sides while another ran a wand over him, muttering a searching spell. The teenager looked like he was in pain but aside from that, his lip was curled in rebellion and contempt while the wizards worked on him. Harry didn't know him but thought he might have seen his scowling face on a plaque of past Slytherin Quidditch players.   
  
Mr. Billings finally noticed Harry and Ginny. "I'm sorry, kids, but you'll have to leave. This is Ministry business." They hesitated. "Don't make me use a Memory Charm." He raised his wand slightly and they took the hint, scurrying into The Leaky Cauldron with all possible haste.   
  


* * *

  
Later that night, in the shadows of a dark doorway across the street from The Leaky Cauldron, Snape watched as another wizard strolled up to the pub and walked in. Taking a deep breath, Snape glided swiftly to the door and entered.   
  
Pausing a moment to let his eyes adjust, Snape eventually became aware of a warm, inviting atmosphere. Various wizards, witches, and what might have been a goblin had he bothered to look closer huddled around various tables, nursing drinks and eating food. He had spent the better part of the day hovering around the area outside the pub until he was sure that it was a general place for wizards and not where those teenagers or other dangerous folk resided. He wasn't sure but somewhere in his indistinct memories, Snape thought that The Leaky Cauldron also offered rooms and that was what he was primarily interested in.   
  
Smoothly, he walked up to the bar. The barkeeper saw him and walked over, a puzzled smile on his round face. "Evenin', Professor. Don't see you around 'ere much. What'll it be?"   
  
"I would like a room," he answered in a low voice, listening instinctively at the noises around him. "Let me be perfectly clear: no one is to know that I am here. If anyone asks, you never saw me. I don't care if Merlin himself walks in and asks for me. I do not wish to be disturbed. Understand?" Snape narrowed his eyes dangerously.   
  
The barkeeper gulped nervously. "Sure thing, Professor. Not a word."   
  


* * *

  
Tom fidgeted nervously behind the mysteriously torn black robes of Professor Snape who stood in the doorway of the small room. Tom was an old pro at dealing with the odd folk who frequented his beloved Leaky Cauldron, but Severus Snape was one wizard that he had never felt comfortable around. _He was a Death Eater once. Only reason I'll tolerate 'im is because Dumbledore trusts 'im. Wouldn't stand for 'is kind otherwise--_   
  
"It will do," Snape said in clipped tones without turning around.   
  
Tom muttered a hurried "good evening" and scurried down the stairs. Snape, meanwhile, entered the small but clean room and glanced around at the sparse furnishings. A bed was to his right and a small chest of drawers stood by the opposite wall. A square mirror above the chest glinted with the light from a street lamp outside.   
  
Sniffing the air and finding it slightly stuffy, Snape walked across the room and opened the window, breathing in deep.   
  
"Don't leave it open all night, dearie, or you'll catch your death."   
  
Snape whirled around. There was no one in the room. In the mirror, his reflection paled.   
  
"Sorry. Did I startle you, dearie? It's only the mirror."   
  
Snape stepped towards the mirror, no longer startled but feeling that strange familiarity again. He hesitated. "I have been with a family of Muggles recently," he said by way of explanation, "Their mirrors don't talk." _Why am I explaining myself to a mirror?_   
  
"You don't say? How extraordinarily odd! Is that why your arm is funny too, dearie? Did the Muggles do something to it?"   
  
"My arm?" Snape looked down. His left arm was still in its white plaster although he had tucked it under his robe to hide the whiteness from prying eyes. "The bone is broken."   
  
The mirror was silent a moment. "Don't you remember the charm for fixing broken bones, dearie? I thought most trained wizards knew it." The mirror sounded hesitant, as if trying not to sound offensive.   
  
"You'd be surprised what I can't remember," he growled.   
  
"Oh dear! Memory Charm gone wrong? I'm terribly sorry. Not the first time I've seen it… Anyway, dear, the spell is quite simple if you've got enough magic behind it. Raise your wand and say _Ossis Reparo_, tapping the arm at the same time."   
  
Snape hesitated. "But you're only a mirror," he protested doubtfully.   
  
The mirror made a strange "hmpf" sound. "Well! I may be 'only a mirror' but I certainly have been hanging around long enough to know a simple fracture-fixing charm. I had a trained medi-wizard stay in my room once too!"   
  
Snape rolled his eyes and took out his wand. _It's a good thing no one is here to see me take instructions from a mirror._ he thought ruefully, raising the wand. "_Ossis Reparo!_" he said firmly, tapping the white plaster gently with the tip of his wand. Inside his arm, he felt a strange tingling sensation. Not particularly unpleasant but odd nonetheless.   
  
"There! Good as new!" the mirror said with satisfaction.   
  
Snape raised a black eyebrow sardonically. "And just how am I to rid myself of this?" he asked holding up the arm that was still encased in plaster.   
  
The mirror was silent. "I'm afraid I don't know. I'm not used to Muggle medicine." Snape scowled and sat down on the bed. "Don't give up so soon, dearie! I'm sure with my knowledge and your wand we can find some spell that works. Let's start at the beginning, shall we? Hmm. _Abulos_? No; that's for cleaning."   
  
Snape sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was going to be a long night. 


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**   
  
"Happy birthday, Harry!"   
  
Harry opened one eye and groaned. Sirius and Remus stood at the foot of his bed, wide smiles on their faces. Harry closed his eye and buried his face deeper into the pillow. "Go 'way," he muttered indistinctly.   
  
"Come on, Harry!" Sirius said, tapping him on the shoulder, "We have to get going. Dumbledore has allowed us a few hours break from ward-weaving so we have to do our best with the time we have." Harry's only reply was a loud snore. Sirius yanked the blanket off of the bed and Harry considered reaching for his wand. Remus muttered something and Harry suddenly felt a splash of cold water on his face.   
  
"Okay! Okay! I'm up."   
  
Harry stifled a yawn as he stood up and glared at his two grinning tormenters. "If you two are simply going to stand there, get me some breakfast while I take a shower," he said groggily as he grabbed some clothes on the way to the lavatory. Once awake under the hot water, Harry started to look forward to the few hours he could spend with Remus and Sirius. Quickly, he washed his now chin length hair and stepping out, performed a quick drying charm. It was only after standing in front of the mirror while brushing his teeth he realized he didn't have his glasses on. The world was strangely clear and focused as if he did have them on.   
  
"Weird," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. He made a mental note to ask Madam Pomfrey if a wizard's eyes could correct themselves as he was pulling on his black Hogwarts robes.   
  
As he stepped out, Sirius held up his forgotten glasses with a grin. "Forget something?" Remus, however, frowned at Harry as if not recognizing him.   
  
Harry shook his head, causing some of his black mop of hair to fall into his eyes. "I don't need them. My eyes got better."   
  
"Got better?" repeated Remus, "What do you mean?"   
  
Harry shrugged. "I mean they got better. I can see perfectly well without them." Sirius looked confused and Remus looked concerned. Harry grabbed a few bites of bacon from the tray that had appeared while he was in the shower.   
  
"Perhaps you should see Madam Pomfrey before going anywhere today," suggested Remus, watching Harry with a worried frown.   
  
Harry swallowed and scowled. "No way! You guys only have a few hours and I'm not going to waste part of that just to ask if my eyes are okay. They feel fine," he insisted, "Besides, this isn't the first time I've fixed something over night. Aunt Petunia cut my hair really bad once and it grew back to its normal length overnight. This is probably the same thing."   
  
Remus still looked unconvinced but Sirius shrugged and grinned. "Well, grab your broom then, Harry. Your sixteenth birthday celebration has officially begun."   
  


* * * 

  
For the next hour, they played on the Quidditch field. Sirius played Keeper at one point, guarding the round goal posts from Harry and Remus. Remus proved to be a capable Chaser, easily dodging Harry's attempts to get the Quaffle nestled safely under his arm and scoring nearly every time.   
  
"Perhaps you took too much of your aging potion, Sirius," joked Remus, jauntily tossing the Quaffle in the air and catching it neatly. "You're getting slow in your old age."   
  
"Not as slow as you!" Harry quipped, diving under the Quaffle as Remus tossed it again and grabbing it.   
  
"Hey!" exclaimed Remus, nearly falling off his borrowed school broom. "Theif!"   
  
Sirius started to laugh and belatedly became aware that Harry was speeding towards him. Before Sirius had a chance to prepare himself, Harry scored a goal. Whooping jubilantly, Harry flew a victory lap around the field. Remus and Sirius flew after him and a race ensued but both of the older men were soundly beaten by Harry's Firebolt.   
  
Winded, Sirius and Remus declared a truce. They didn't have very much time left so they took their brooms back to Hogwarts and walked to Hogsmeade. After getting a birthday butterbeer from The Three Broomsticks, they travelled by the Floo Network to Diagon Alley. Once there, Harry was pleased to discover a table already set at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour and Florean Fortescue herself waited on them and wished Harry a happy birthday. Ginny came over too from the Apothecary and although Harry had to introduce Sirius as Wideric White, she didn't seem to question why he was there and he was able to relax again. She had looked questioningly at the absence of his glasses but seemed to get used to it after awhile.   
  
While they were in the middle of eating their ice cream, a distant twittering sound Harry had been ignoring grew louder. Finally Pigwidgeon fell out of the sky, dropped a package in Harry's lap, and landed in Harry's double-fudge ripple sundae, splashing ice cream on everyone.   
  
"Pig!" exclaimed Ginny, "You silly owl!" She gingerly picked up the sticky ball of feathers that was still hooting with annoyance. "I'll be right back. I think the pet store can clean him up," she said apologetically.   
  
Sirius and Remus watched her disappear down the street and hurriedly took out a package from underneath the table. "Harry, it would be best if you didn't open this here but we'll tell you what it is." Harry curiously took the square box from Sirius. "Do you know what a Pensieve is?" Harry nodded. "Well, you may not know this," smiled Remus, "but there is a way to store memories permanently. Although this way doesn't hold as much as a Pensieve, you don't have to deal with unpleasant memories. Sirius and I siphoned off some of our best memories with Lily and James. We wanted you to see them as they were, as you should have known them."   
  
Harry swallowed and suddenly found it hard to speak. "Thanks," he whispered hoarsely, putting the box carefully down beside his chair underneath the slightly smaller package from Romania. Ms. Fortescue saved them all from speaking as she cleaned up the mess Pig had made and gave Harry a new sundae. Right after she left, a larger owl with black-flecked grey wings fluttered down from the sky and landed on the back of an empty chair, holding out a letter in Harry's direction.   
  
"Whose owl is that?" wondered Remus as Harry curiously took the envelope. The owl screeched angrily and Harry hurriedly gave it a few knuts.   
  
"It's from Gringotts," said Harry, glancing at the postmark and putting the envelope in a pocket without opening it, "It's probably something about my account. I'll open it later."   
  
Ginny finally returned, but the owl was nowhere in sight. "Pig is on his way back to Romania," explained Ginny, "I hope he-" She stopped suddenly, her mouth gaping open in shock.   
  
"Ginny? What--?" asked Harry or started to ask. Because when Harry turned around, he saw what she had been staring at: Professor Severus Snape. He was standing stock still in a frayed black robe, looking at them all as if he had never seen them before in his entire life. 


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**   
  
After a couple of days of listening to the mirror prattle on about different spells and their uses, Snape knew he must get out of the Leaky Cauldron or run mad. So one day, he went down to the main room of the inn and sat in a dark corner, observing the various witches and wizards around him. One or two seemed to look his way with surprise; but with a distracting charm the mirror had taught him the night before, they went back to their drinks.   
  
One interesting thing Snape noted was that every so often a wizard would go through a back door that apparently led outside and they didn't come back for many hours or, in a few cases, at all. He wondered if there was another wizarding establishment back there.   
  
Finally, his decision was being made for him. The boy with the long black hair and green eyes had entered by the fireplace. When he looked up, Snape noticed with a jolt that the boy wasn't wearing his glasses which made him look alarmingly like a younger version of the face in the mirror he had so recently gotten used to. _Who is that boy?_   
  
Two adult wizards followed the black-haired young man out of the fireplace. Again, Snape felt that familiar awareness when he looked at them, although if someone had asked him, he would neither be able to name them or say where he had met them. They were both about the same height although one was noticeably older than the other. He had a grey-flecked beard and long dark hair with streaks of white in it.   
  
The other wizard might have been Snape's own age but he looked weary. _Not weary, sick._ Snape blinked with surprise. His hair was light brown and he had a smile that lit up his face, despite that the man's illness was painfully obvious to Snape's eyes. The sick wizard clapped a familiar hand on the boy's shoulder and, together, they went towards the back door. Hardly realizing what he was doing, Snape stood to follow them but checked himself in time.   
  
He waited until a small gaggle of schoolgirls prepared to exit about fifteen minutes later. He followed them out, hands twitching impatiently, and found himself facing a brick wall. Was this some kind of joke?   
  
In the silence that followed he realized that a small hand was preparing to tug on his robes. "Mister?" Snape looked down into a pair of big blue eyes, belonging to a child about ten years old.   
  
"What?" he asked warily, resisting the urge to yank his robes out of reach.   
  
"Did you want to open the wall to Diagon Alley?"   
  
Snape blinked. "Uh, no. You go right ahead." He backed away from the brick wall and the little girl gestured towards an older girl who confidently stepped forward and tapped a few bricks with a short wand.   
  


* * *

  
The silence seemed to stretch on into infinity until Snape's dark eyes roamed over the suddenly silent group and finally settled on Harry. A flicker of recognition crossed on his narrow face. "I know you," he said, almost as if he wasn't sure.   
  
Remus cleared his throat in the silence. "Severus. This is certainly a… surprise. Er, Dumbledore has been looking for you for some time. You might want to let him know…" he trailed off, suddenly struck by the quizzical look in the potion master's eyes.   
  
Sirius swore under his breath and called Snape something that made Ginny blush but Snape didn't look at Sirius. His dark eyebrows furrowed as he turned his dark glare upon Remus. "Dumbledore?" The shadowy eyes flickered again.   
  
Harry didn't know what to think but there was a sinking feeling in his stomach. Remus was watching Snape with a puzzled expression and Sirius looked ready to leap for the potion master's throat. Ginny simply looked confused, her brown eyes darting from Snape to Harry and back.   
  
"Sirius, I think you should go get Dumbledore," Remus said finally breaking the awkward silence. He stood and went to Snape who watched him warily. "Severus, I don't know what's happened to you but you can trust me. I'm Remus Lupin, I went to school with you."   
  
"Are you mad, Remus?" Sirius finally burst out, "What are you doing? He knows who you are-"   
  
Remus shot his friend a hard look. "Sirius, don't take this the wrong way but shut up and Apparate as close to Hogwarts as you can. We'll be waiting here."   
  
Sirius opened his mouth and gaped like a fish for a few seconds before finally closing his mouth with a snap and Disapparating with a soft _pop_.   
  
Snape refused to sit, but remained standing a few feet away from the table where his dark eyes continually darted to Harry, who no longer had an appetite for his ice cream. Remus talked to him quietly for a few moments in a calming voice. Gradually, Snape's body seemed to relax and the suspicious glint in his eyes finally faded.   
  
"I don't know," Snape replied irritably in response to a question Remus asked him, "I recognize you but I don't know you. I don't remember what happened to me."   
  
"You'll be okay, Severus," Remus assured him, "There's a special hospital for wizards. They'll be able to help get your memory back. "   
  
"I'm not sure I want it back," Snape replied quietly.   
  
Remus opened his mouth but hesitated. Snape saw it and laughed bitterly. "So, you know it too? Tell me the truth, Remus, is the past of Severus Snape truly worth remembering?"   
  
Remus was saved from answering by the arrival of Dumbledore and Sirius. Sirius was still frowning but he remained quiet. Dumbledore nodded briefly to Remus and walked silently up to Snape. The aged wizard looked intently at Snape who looked back for a moment and then flinched at something he saw reflected in those twinkling blue eyes.   
  
"My dear boy, what have you gotten yourself into this time?" he asked gently. Snape looked away. Dumbledore touched his shoulder. "Come, Severus. We must get you patched up."   
  


* * *

  
The old wizard's touch was so familiar and comforting that Snape followed him without question. They walked along the cobblestone street until stopping at a little box set into the wall of a rundown store. The box said, in faded letters: "Emergency Portkey to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Please use only if injured witch/wizard is unable to Apparate." Dumbledore opened the front of it to reveal a small statue of what appeared to be a monk in his brown habit, holding a fish in one hand and a ring in the other.   
  
"St. Mungo himself," said Dumbledore cheerfully, noticing Snape's curious expression. "Severus, I want you, on the count of three, to touch the statue. One, two, three!" 


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**  
_"Abruptly the poker of memory stirs the ashes of recollection and uncovers a forgotten ember,  
still smoldering down there, still hot, still glowing, still red as red."_   
-William Manchester   
  
Snape's finger darted forward and the moment he touched the little statue, he felt as if an enormous hook had suddenly grabbed him right behind the navel and _pulled._ The world rushed by in a nauseating blur; Snape closed his eyes and, after a few moments, felt his feet touch blissfully solid ground again.   
  
"Ah, here we are," announced Dumbledore beside him, straightening his hat with a twinkle in his eyes. "I had forgotten how much fun portkey travel can be."   
  
They had landed in the middle of what appeared to be a normal Muggle hospital lobby…. Except, on closer observation, there were a few things decidedly not what Muggles would consider normal. A small boy played happily with a magical floating puzzle while his frantic mother told the nurse he had swallowed his play wand. One teenage witch was wailing in despair as a handsome young wizard was hurriedly wheeled out on a gurney, in two separate pieces.   
  
Dumbledore noticed where Snape's eyes had followed.   
  
"Splinched. Poor boy. Apparating without a license, I presume."   
  
Dumbledore motioned him into a seat and went to speak with the harried looking witch behind the desk. He came back a moment later with a clipboard holding several sheets of parchment, a bedraggled quill and a nearly empty inkwell, handing them to Snape with a smile.   
  
Snape filled out what he could (_name, profession, nature of malady, duration of malady_) and handed the form back to the nurse. He had barely taken his seat again when his name was called loudly at the front desk. Snape stood, hesitated and looked back at Dumbledore.   
  
"Don't worry, Severus. They will call me when you are released if you wish," he said gently, standing up. Snape nodded and walked away.   
  
He was taken under the wing of a plump little nurse with a pug nose and bunches of springy red hair stuffed underneath her prim nurse's cap. She chirped over him like a mother bird and soon, Snape found himself in a chair that floated off of the ground. She tapped it once with her wand and it proceeded to follow her up a flight of moving stairs, down two hallways and around a few corners until finally stopping at one room in a relatively quiet corner of the hospital.   
  
"Here we are," she announced cheerfully, "please get changed, Professor Snape. Dr. Goopheard will be right with you." She bustled out, and quietly closed the door behind her.   
  
Snape sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face wearily. The journey was almost over. In a few moments, perhaps, he'd drink some potion and his memory would be back… whether he wanted it or not.   
  
* * *   
  
_"Are you sure?"   
  
"Yes! Just do it. I know you can do Memory Charms, Lily, so go on and get it over with."   
  
A pause and then the fatal lifting of a slender wand.   
  
"Oblivate!"_   
  
Snape opened his eyes and cautiously looked at his surroundings. He was in St. Mungo's still although the room was darkened. How long he had been asleep he did not know. The last thing he remembered was the nurse giving him a dose of Sleeping Potion.   
  
"Sleep will speed along the recovery of your memories," she had said as the potent concoction threaded its way through his veins.   
  
Dr. Goopheard had been intensely interested in the plaster covering Snape's arm.   
  
"Muggles are so extraordinary! Just look at the ways they've managed to survive without magic."   
  
After expounding for a few minutes upon the ingenuity of Muggle physicians, the doctor finally took it off Snape's arm with a dissolving potion he charmed to stop once it reached skin. Although the arm was wrinkled and pale, the doctor pronounced it fit to go back to normal use after Snape had told him the bone was fixed from the charm he had cast earlier.   
  
The doctor had been impressed by the few things Snape had remembered.   
  
"Not many victims of Memory Charms that go wrong are so lucky," he said, "your recovery will probably go twice as fast compared to a fellow we had here a few years ago. Odd chap. Dressed in the most flamboyant robes I've ever seen. Had some crazy story about a giant snake and Harry Potter."   
  
Snape grimaced at the memory, for he knew exactly whom the doctor must have been referring to. A commotion down the hallway snagged his attention, and his nurse appeared at the door, giggling and blushing as if St. Valentine himself had given her a box of chocolates.   
  
"Oh, Professor Snape! You have a visitor," she announced in a giggling voice and opened the door wider. A head peeked in beside her, crowned with golden curls and flashing Snape a grin that had successfully won Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile award five times in a row.   
  
"Oh no…."   
  
"Surprise, Severus!" beamed Gilderoy Lockhart, resplendent in lavender and turquoise robes, "Halloo old chap. I see that not even the rakish potions master is immune to Memory Charms." He nudged the blushing nurse knowingly and she giggled even harder. "I was simply on a visit to my favourite nurse when I heard you had been admitted. Can you imagine my surprise? I said to myself: 'Well, of course I'll have to visit poor Severus. After all, I had helped him on that trifling potion back at Hogwarts, he would be glad to see me'. So I went to Nurse Janson, the head nurse, you know, and…"   
  
Not for the first time in his life, Snape thought lovingly of wrapping his hands around that perfect neck. 


	20. Author's Notes

**Author's Note:**

When I started out to write fanfic, I told myself that I wouldn't become one of those authors that abandons their stories and leaves readers hanging.

Well, obviously, I did turn into one of those authors, and I deeply apologize to readers who've been waiting. Real life crept up; I graduated college, started a full time job, and got engrossed in original story ideas. In short, I pretty much left fanfic behind and nearly forgot about this website.

But a determined reader tracked me down and reminded me of this story, so I've decided to give you the tidbits of what I had planned for this story. There's only one more complete chapter, but the rest I'll just have to tell you what I planned. I can safely say I won't finish this story, but here is what I wanted to do with it:

Chapter 19 

"…_remembering is only a new form of suffering."_

–Charles Baudelaire

Severus Snape sat on the edge of the hospital bed, eyes shut against the unending reality of the room. They could not, however, shut out the past.

He remembered.

Curse that sniveling, suspicious footstool that Voldemort had replaced with Peter Pettigrew. Was it his imagination or did the dark mark on his arm throb faintly with the mention of its master?

_Darius Dreddnaught_.

Snape clenched his fists, gripping the bed sheets tight enough to hurt his hands. Dreddnaught was lucky that Wormtail came along. With Pettigrew now taking his place at the Dark Lord's feet, Dreddnaught had been forgotten and pushed back down into the lowest levels of Death Eater hierarchy.

He remembered.

Lily. Curse her. He should have used Imperious but he had let something else get in the way of his intellect...

Potter... Perfect Prefect Potter... Curse him too. Always the brave one. Always the hero. _Being the hero didn't help you that time, did it Potter? Merely got yourself and Lily blown up. Who's the hero now, Potter?_

Screams, darkness, the warmth of blood on his hands. It was her fault. It was all her fault. Why did she have to be so foolish? Why had he been… why _was_ he so foolish? If she had just stayed out of everything she might still be alive..._ If you had convinced her the first time..._ His stomach gurgled unpleasantly and a warm pain flared in his chest. The doctor had warned him that the Memory Restoration Potion was caustic… Absently, he eyed the bottle of milk of magnesia sitting on the tray by the bed but made no move to take it. The heartburn reminded him that he was alive. Stupidly, ungraciously, unwillingly alive.

Dreddnaught had always hated Snape. He'd hated Snape with an unwavering passion that bordered on insanity. Snape supposed it was mostly a jealous hatred. Dreddnaught was a Hogwarts dropout; his knowledge of magic consisted of most of the common curses and hexes that every schoolboy knew. Snape had been superior in knowledge, status, and even, for the first time in his life, looks. Snape had been Voldemort's favorite for a few years while Dreddnaught had to be content to grovel at the Dark Lord's feet or feel the cold grip of the Killing Curse.

He remembered everything.

_Idiot._

Why had he forgotten to mention Dreddnaught at the inquest? He had mentioned numerous others at the prodding of the Minister of Magic to be allowed to spy for Dumbledore and not go back to Azkaban. He was an idiot to forget him. _The attack always comes from the least expected corner._ He had learned that lesson as a child and he was a fool to have forgotten it.

Snape's lip curled in contempt. Even when confronting him after so many years had gone by, Dreddnaught still wasn't Snape's equal in dueling… but he had been outnumbered that day. Snape cursed himself. He shouldn't have gone alone but he had and because of the combined power of three accidental Obliviate spells, his memory had been wiped clean. For perhaps the first time since his birth, Snape's internal record held no blot or blemish. It had been a clean sheet of parchment with a well-cut quill waiting to write down a new history.

Snape's stomach gurgled unpleasantly again, and he cursed it roundly too, just for good measure.

Dr. Goopheard had explained that contrary to popular belief, the _Obliviate_ did not erase a memory. Rather, it simply blocked a memory from being processed.

"It's rather like plugging a leak," he explained while his patient drank the first mouthful. "Unstopped, the leak will continue to pour but plugged up, the leak will stop flowing as if it had never existed. What I must do to you, Professor Snape, is find all of those plugs and pull them out." The doctor warned him that he might even have new memories after the process was completed because doubtless, there had been times in his past where he had been made to forget something in a perfectly normal situation. However, as Dr. Goopheard couldn't discriminate between the individual memories, those memories would be retrieved as well.

Snape shuddered. _Curse her… curse Potter… curse her sister… What was her name…? Something flowery, something that Muggles would choose…. Rose? Iris? Why bother. It hardly matters now…_

New memories…. Snape squeezed his eyes shut. _No!_

_Potions tutoring… green eyes…. A tincture of foxglove, its aroma drifting around, his heart beating faster from inhaling some of the steam… a slender willow wand, casting calm enchantments to the book so they could read without interrupting the potion…_

"Severus?" Remus Lupin hesitantly opened the door.

_Lily, drunk. Sobering potion… Slightly inebriated himself… Tears… Inane chatter about a potions project…. Potter…_

"Are you okay?"

Snape looked blankly at him. _The werewolf? What's he doing here? The full moon is near, why isn't he--?_

"Severus?"

_The hospital… The Childes… The Potter boy with Lily's eyes…._

Snape looked at Remus who must have read his expression because he quickly conjured a bucket for Snape to lean over and lose what little breakfast he had forced down that morning.

"Silver stirring rod?"

"Check."

"Large cauldron lined with silver?"

Harry leaned over the named item seeing his blurred reflection in the bottom.

"Check."

"Good," replied Hermione, her head bobbing in Snape's fireplace. She looked at Harry, searching his face. "Are you ready?"

Harry swallowed and nodded. "I'd better be."

Hermione tried to smile but it wobbled unconvincingly and she gave it up. "All right, then. Let's get started. Start the fire under the cauldron and let it get nice and hot before we start mixing the ingredients." Harry did so. "First, select half a dozen Jobberknoll feathers of about three inches in length. Next, chop up five ounces of fluxweed and grind with mortar into a fine powder."

About an hour later, Harry shakily wiped an arm across his forehead. "One… two… three…" he muttered, stirring counter clockwise with three quick strokes.

Hermione's voice sounded tense as she read the next step. "Add a bezoar but don't let it splash you. The potion should be highly toxic to a normal wizard by now."

Harry leaned over, the bezoar in hand, but stepped back quickly, shielding his face. "It's too hot."

Hermione frowned worriedly. "How will you get it in? It has to be dissolving in the potion within five minutes or else we'll have to start all over."

Harry thought quickly, looking around the dim office, hoping for inspiration. His eyes fell upon the black quill on Snape's desk. With a smile as he remembered a bushy-haired first year mimicking precise wand movements, Harry cast a levitation charm on the bezoar and let it float placidly into the bubbling cauldron, without a splash.

Harry turned to Hermione for the next step but her eyes weren't looking at him. She squeaked in alarm and Harry heard a step behind him.

"Well done, Mr. Potter. I've seen more experienced wizards burn themselves at this stage of the Wolfsbane Potion." Snape walked in from his position at the doorway, black robes billowing out behind him, wand in hand. Harry wondered distractedly for a moment if Snape had charmed his robes to fly out so impressively.

"Er…"

For the first time no appropriate excuse came to his mind. _Hi Professor Snape. Don't mind me, I'm just using your personal potions stores to make a highly dangerous and difficult potion. I'm also underage, did you know that?_ He had a feeling that would not go over well.

Meanwhile, Snape had closed the gap between them and examined the bubbling cauldron. He cautiously sniffed a ladleful. He glanced at Harry who was still standing uncertainly to the side.

"Don't just stand there, Potter!" he snapped, "You've done well up to now but it's fortunate that I arrived before you really messed it up. As for you, Miss Granger--"

Hermione paled, making her floating head among the flames look ghostly.

"You may stay if you wish, but I doubt Mr. Potter and I will need further help." He turned to the open potions book, ignoring them both for a moment. Harry shrugged at Hermione's inquisitive look and went to the Professor's side.

Snape silently moved a section of a Mandrake root and a knife to him. "Slice this into four equal sized pieces."

"Welcome back, Professor," Harry said quietly, keeping his eyes on the root. On the work desk, Snape's hands stilled. Harry offered up the sliced mandrake to his approval.

Hard, black eyes examined it critically and nodded in mute acceptance. Harry waited. Snape stared at him, then looked away.

"What are you waiting for, Potter? The new moon?" Although sarcastic, the comment wasn't as cutting as normal. "Go ahead and add it."

Harry reddened but carefully added the root to the cauldron, stirring carefully once, clockwise. "I thought you would want to do it, sir."

"You're never going to learn, Potter, if you don't do it yourself," Snape replied in a calm tone that Harry recognized as his lecture voice for class. "Besides, I'm watching you like Professor Trelawney inspects tea leaves. If you do anything wrong, I'll correct it before a disaster happens."

Harry nodded in acceptance. "Okay." He realized with a start that he was having a conversation with Snape that didn't include shouting. He glanced at Snape out of the corner of his eye and wondered what had happened at the hospital.

Snape, meanwhile, was watching Harry's actions and trying not to think ahead too far into the week. He had some explaining to do…

If that rather convoluted chapter didn't help, here's what happened to Snape. Early in the summer, mid-June, Snape travels to London and is attacked by Darius Dreddnaught, a Death Eater who suspects Snape's treachery. Dreddnaught, with two Death Eaters in training, wants to bring Snape in to face Voldemort and confess his duplicity, but he goes too far. The two training DE's cast an Obliviate spell at the same time, which was too powerful; the original plan called for just one of them to cast it; it was only meant to disorient Snape for the moment so they could Apparate away. But the two conjoined spells knocked Snape out, and he crashed against some trashcans in the alley where they had met, alerting some muggles who lived in the area. The Death Eaters Disapparated, leaving Snape to be discovered by the muggles who called the ambulance.

The end of the story was going to feature Snape and Harry coming to an uneasy truce, and Snape then going to Voldemort to explain his absence and once again weasel his way into the Dark Lord's trust with tidbits about Dumbledore and what the Order of the Phoenix was up to over the summer. Dreddnaught dies in some yet unplotted way; perhaps by Snape in front of Voldemort as a sort of test? I hadn't actually plotted that out yet.

The secondary plot, which I'm sure you've guessed, was that Harry was in fact Snape's son, not James Potter's. That, however, I was going to possibly expand on in a sequel, since this story was about Snape, not Harry. Part of the memories that Snape ends up recovering at St. Mungo's is the night he spent the night with Lily (long story; she had broken up with James, her parents died, her job at the Ministry was on shaky ground, and Petunia had kicked her out. Though she had never been on friendly terms with Snape at Hogwarts, he had occasionally helped in potions, and she with him for charms. And, of course, Snape is still a Death Eater at this point, and not averse to taking what he wants).

And that's it. Thanks for sticking with me so far. If I do ever write Harry Potter fanfic again, I will be sure to post it here. But if you're interested in any of my original stories, feel free to click on over to: 


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